Once I remember a girl who had me questioning. I stood there, transfixed, gazing at her awe. Her long flowing hair in chestnut locks itched me to comb it with my bare hand—for I was not worthy. She was divine. Perhaps a clink to perfection. Not a blemish nor a scar tainted her fair complexion. It shone, bathed in the most glistening olive under the ray of sunlight. She was tall; slender long limbs as if sculpted to life, and her round head, pearly-like, craned towards my direction. I shifted away, ashamed. I glanced back. How beautiful she was! The emerald hue in her almond irises sheened as lushly as the primeval forest behind her, complimented by high rosy cheekbones where her hopeful tears dribbled. But her smile. Her smile, I repeated. I would die anything for it. To taste the honey, it’s sweetness in my mouth, from those glossy, plump lips, curving perfectly from the philtrum to shape it into a pinkish heart. How I would wish. But I was surprised by her voice, twinkling in mellifluous trebles and vast words—which could calm the thunders of my storming thoughts. I could already imagine her mind: a shelf of wit, talent, and chastity combined. She spoke in calm tones that carried persuasion and knowledge, yet her confidence set me into trance. I wanted to snuggle in her tender arms, and cradle beside her warm bosom, feeling the thudding of her pure, innocent heart. And wanted to feel her graceful fingers and the cream creases of her palms, stroking my frizzy locks. I loved her. I loved her so much that I’m tethered to my madness. Only one thing would I wish, a chance for a poor man: I hope she loved me in return.
- poetpot