She loves herself.

You see it
in her walk:
the way she stalks
down the street,
the placement of her feet,
the stretch of her pace,
the look on her face
as she stares straight ahead.

You see it
in her hands:
the way they demand
your eager looks
in the grace they flip books,
her fingers float elegant
in ethereal abandonment
as her looks scour the sky.

You see it
in her face:
the way her eyes grace
her reflection in every window,
the way her hands go
to scan her cheeks as she stares
straight into your eyes as you talk shares
as those eyes pierce your soul.

She loves herself.
You see it,
and you love her too.