Staring at him is a pastime.
The slightest lines around his lips, proclaiming that smiles weren’t impervious to him.
The way sunlight danced around with rays of happiness on his golden, golden, golden hair.
His brows, relaxed— never pulled taught like the trigger of a gun.
1, 2, 3, 4, 5 fingers wrapped around my mind.
His breath— steady, warm.
Brushing against my skin with whispers of everlasting love.
Counting his individual lashes separately.
Several glints in his deep eyes, myself reflected within.
Two forests hidden by glass cages we call eyes.
I’d like, I think, to see the world through his perspective.