I want to express to her just how beautiful I find her to be. But there are certain hindrances that resurrect boulders between my thoughts and my words. You see, she is outstandingly, breathtakingly beautiful. But she is oft told of this by many with more eloquence than I surely do possess. Yet, I still have this strong urge to tell her. I want to tell her. I should tell her. But how do you tell a woman who knows, who is often told, she is beautiful?
She is completely alluring to the eye, but more than that she possesses this indescribably energy about her, in spirit, in heart, in mind, that it is impossible not to magnetically drawn to her beauty.
How do I tell her just how capable she is of making my heart skip a beat? How do I tell her she is a thief who makes off in the night with my breath and my thoughts? How do I tell her she is incredible without it sounding too mushy and ridiculous?
I could compare her radiance to the sun’s as most poets do but in doing so I am simply making her beauty common, and that it is most definitely not.
I could compare the gloss of her lips to the shine of the moon wafting over quiet romantic waves of the ocean, in the deepest of nights, but look at how annoyingly wordy that is.
I could compare her smile to sunlit lush forests but the nature of her smile when it is for me is far more picturesque a vista.
She is incomparable. As a poet, as a writer, I fall short of descriptions. So, I just look at her because the mere picture of her is beautifying my mind as beds of flowers that bloom in a garden. I say little because saying anything feels redundant, though as much as I would like to tear open every seam and spill incoherency all over her feet, I would hate for the dignity of the moment to be lost to mere words. But I would hope, I would so earnestly hope, that she would be privy to my inner most thoughts just by spending a few quiet seconds looking back at me.
Argh, I’m a bit annoyed though, just realised I’ve not done any work this half-term, and I have loads to do, so I guess these next 3 days will be pretty homework based. Really can’t be bothered but I guess I have had a week of doing nothing. Unless you count French, in which case, I really have done quite a lot of work. But no one does seem to count French. Goodnight :)
“Imagining the future is a kind of nostalgia. You spend your whole life stuck in the labyrinth, thinking about how you’ll escape it one day, and how awesome it will be, and imagining that future keeps you going, but you never do it. You just use the future to escape the present.” John Green, Looking for Alaska