I've never danced this dance before. I find myself figuring out the steps as I go along. Grissom never let things progress like this. Grissom had stopped the dance before the music had even started. His affections had always been fleeting; his quest for beauty was solely limited to the insects that adorned the walls of his office and his home. His quest for beauty had left me out in the cold . . . alone at night . . . for way too long.

I'm not a flirt; I don't think I would know how to if I ever had to. I'm not the beautiful one; old boyfriends had always referred to me as an unconventional beauty. I don't have the sexy, curvy body. I don't wear sexy clothes. I find that my jeans and t-shirts are much more comfortable. I find that they are a much better representation of who I am. Besides, it would be false advertising for me to dress up in cocktail dresses, tight jeans, and sexy shirts . . . it's not who I am.

I've asked him a hundred times why he looks at me like I am beautiful. He responds that I am beautiful. He doesn't use the word unconventional as the other have. He finds beauty in me that others search for in butterflies, beetles, and other insignificant things. I've always wondered why one would look for beauty in something that isn't going to find beauty in the admirer.

I find beauty in him. I've always been able to find beauty in him. From his perfect smile to the way that he plays with his nieces and nephews . . . it is all beautiful. He is gentle; he is gentle with me and gentle with others. Most importantly, he is gentle with my heart. I am so lucky to have that beauty in my life. It's opened up a world of color that I had never known before. I didn't have a mother or a father to teach me about beauty; Grissom sure as hell didn't teach me about beauty. Only he has taken the time to teach me.

It's a complex mating dance. It's fast, it's scary, it's one of the most amazing things that I have ever done. He teaches me; he's patient with me when I begin to pull away. He always pulls me back. I always let him pull me back because I have begun to fear life without him.

My mother once compared her life to a poem; she said her life was a romantic tragedy. In the end, her poem hurt everyone around her. My poem started with the same tragedy, but he has re-written the ending. I'm lucky that the tragedy had been resurrected into a romance that words barely describe.

I lay in bed with him. He body is warm against mine. He's beautiful; for the first time in a long time, life is beautiful.

I don't know how to thank him for the poem he wrote.

FIN