When she says she doesn't believe me when I say she's beautiful, I'm reminded of the skies at sunset - painted in the hues of orange slices and lemonade in the Summer lasting all through into Autumn.
I'm reminded of the deep blue and vastness of the skies in early evening, the space beyond holding pinpricks of light and dustings of galaxies that I can see in her eyes every time she smiles.
I'm reminded of the colours shifting when the light hits the glass windows in a Cathedral so empty I can hear my heartbeat echoing, the same heart that she gave me. I find it beautiful that such a human could exist, I almost find myself peering at the statues of angels to try find her semblance.
I'm reminded of the way I see her in everything, a sunset, a moonlit stroll, a flower petal landing on my shoulder from the breeze that lifts it - and everything is so soul shatteringly wonderous I begin to imagine this beauty, this raw unfiltered awe that I have for her not existing and I find it empty, soulless, preposterous.
When she says she doesn't believe me when I say she's beautiful, I look back at her - knowing that I will spend the rest of my life proving to her that some angels don't have wings, they don't have halos whipped around their heads gilded with gold, they don't wear white or produce miracles.
I can see one of them, and she's standing right in front of me with her hand outstretched, a dusting of very light freckles across her face, crashing ocean waves mingling with ice in her eyes, and my heart is hers. And oh god.