Though I'm confident I know every inch of you by now,
I'd rather not say 'like the back of my palm',
for the familiarity is more tantamount to the air that I breath.
If I were to describe you to a sketch artist,
I would be stumped, completely lost for words.
If I were pressed I'd ponder for an eternity,
and reluctantly begin with your eyes, if pressed some more.
I would say they are dusty blue and deep, deep not in the hue
but the capacity for me to get lost in them forever.
The beard, rustic and playfully speckled in shades of crimson,
is a tug of war between a starving artist and an ancient Greek philosopher.
Freckles in-between resemble the night sky with my favourite constellation,
plus a few more stars scattered for that extra sparkle.
Those ridiculously long eye lashes completely wasted on any other man,
forcing me to restrain blinking in your presence,
so I would not miss a single time you blink,
hence witnessing third of a second of divine artistry.
You are indescribable and defining you as perfect would be an extreme misstatement,
for you are not the ultimate level of mortal physical attraction.
You are a memory, a vision and an everyday feeling,
inherent yet I relentlessly pursue and strive to own.
You could make raging atheists superstitious,
whereas for me you are salvation.
So if I were truly pressed to describe even vaguely the way you look,
it will have to be in animated glossolalia, or resort to a quick intake of breath
followed by a wistful sigh and gazing dreamily into the abyss.
On most days I think you are my every dream,
but here you are, very real.