Prestine

Pristine...
What is it?
The immaculate
Without mar
Or ruin.  In its form
It is perfect.

Yet, a glass
Tells a different story.

The sun's kisses
Have stained spots
Upon cheeks.
One hand grips in strength,
While a wrist is curved
In weak display.
Scars, callouses and cellulite
Glitter my skin, marked
By miles hiked on life's trails.
Muscles tethered
Joints strained,
Years of wear from
Battles on grass and dust.

The crows rest 
Next to my eyes,
Revealing the tears
I have cried.
The lines above
My brow shares
The worries I've endured.
Creases lay
Where dimples should,
Uttering the joyous
Moments felt.

No, my body
Isn't pristine.
If it were,
It would prove
I never lived.

However,
Maybe it's not the form
But the story displayed
That makes 
My body pristine.