He's not the best looking guy, but he's beautiful, refined.
It's not so much that I lose my breath at the sheer sight of him, but the little parts of him, the beautiful puzzle pieces never make me lose interest.
His hands. I love his hands. They're not too overwhelming in size but his fingers stretch out from his palms in long, slender ribbons that look like they know how to weave through my hair. How to pull and pick and twirl the strands around and around. And gently massage my scalp as though probing my thoughts.
I can't look into his eyes because then I find myself....in brown pools softly cradled by dark lashes. They remind me of mangroves where the leaves hang overhead and in the water, and it is dark and flashing silver. The laughter of birds ripples the water and whistles into dipping dimples.
His hair must be soft. I can only imagine because I've never gotten the courage to touch it. It's full and has large waves that wash over his forehead and dip into his eyes. They curl and lay and wave exactly the way his name rolls off my tongue in wet D's and growling R's and the soft "oh" as you let it go.
His voice. I don't think there's any good way to describe it except maybe like a lover's greeting in the morning. Or like flames stroking the ground. Or maybe it's just like a heartbeat: deep, even, and resonating. I remember lying on his chest and listening to the way inside made its way outside, still just as much a smooth rumble.
It confuses me, this simplicity. So playful, young and brash, but hidden and waiting and possibly insightful.
I don't know what his lips are like. I imagine they'd make me ticklish with light, swift pecks that would keep, keep going until I'm holding my sides to keep it together. I imagine that then he'd pull away, laugh with me, and pull me deeper.