I see ten thousand faces daily;
blurs, barely-processed by a waking visual cortex,
but I see enough to know they’re all beautiful
- or at least, beautiful to someone.
Maybe that makes it worthwhile, to shuffle into the subway and become part of the crowd, all going to jobs that they hate;
worthwhile to work while they know that they’re loved, by someone who waits for them to come home in the evening, someone who lights up with a smile just to see them walk through the door.
And if I look closer I see the young and the old and the short and the tall and the thin and the fat, but none of that matters, they’re almost more real as those pre-caffeine smudges etched onto my brain by the fluorescent lighting as the sun rises unseen above ground.
Beauty is hardly the shape of your body or the smoothness of your skin.
Beauty is more like what’s seen when you’re looked at by someone who loves you no matter what.

I see ten thousand faces daily
and I know that they are all beautiful to someone.

Am I?