I woke up the other day of a dream somewhat peculiar: I was standing at night in the middle of a random street when a group of girls went singing - that would be something like: "The best part of me never was loved. " It was a beautiful song, and I can remember only this curious phrase.
The best parts of us have been loved? I'm sure already in love with the color or the shape of your eyes, but already left moved by the only way they see the world?
They have wished to be panting blowing in your ears, but know and respect the therapeutic gift of listening that they have?
They've already loved by the desires that cause your lips, but who know in depth the reasons that make them draw the best smiles? How you decipher the tone? How you praise for eloquence, or lend you words and tranquility in its absence?
They have found sensuality and comfort on your shoulders, but they love you, too, by the weight they have had to carry? They know and respect the pain that, over time, the cast?
They have loved the beautiful shape of your legs, but your determination ovation - although sagging - never giving up to move on? They admire the collection of paths that make you be who you are?
Many value the grip and texture of your hands, but how many really are proud of all the little spells that are able to sprout them? How you love the gift?
Many have already made your heart race, but how - because they know every crack it - the stroke constantly and ensure that life is much more than your beats?
There is beauty in the presence and absence of every bit of us, but if it is to love, to love us entirely; who love our best parts, that will always be what the physical can to overflowing, but never fully capture.