Perhaps.

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Perhaps beauty is within the soft grey indents of the moon and the incompletion of a crescent.
Perhaps there is beauty as the clouds collide, a natural limitless energy, undefined by human perception. Perhaps there is beauty within the pattering raindrops, with their transparency and resilience, their ability to surface the world.
Perhaps there is meaning behind the barren winters, the tree branches spiny, hoarse yet expectant.
Perhaps there is poetry in the screeches of crows, the howling of wolves and the pounding of a beating heart.
Perhaps there is art in your crooked smile, your untamed curls, your blazing spirit and lambent soul.

If that's so, then there must beauty in my shyness. There must be meaning in my profound emotions and sensitivity. There must be poetry in my evening tears; warm, fresh and velvety on the pillows. There must be art in the curve of my thighs, the indents in my cheeks, the smallness of my physique. 

There must be beauty in everything. 

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