Your hair is shoulder length and cute and half of it is pinned up to the top of your head. My fingers instinctively reach out to touch it and before my brain can register, they're combing through it as if my measly hands are worthy of your waterfall locks - they're not.

Your smile is sweet tea and music and my lips twitch with the feeling of longing and belonging and I wish your lips were mangled with my own. My own smile is smudged and drained and nothing compared to the heavens and the sun and the stars held by yours - absolutely nothing.

Your laugh is honey and syrup and pancakes on a Sunday morning and I wish my loud, indescribable 'ha-ha's were comparable to yours. Your laugh is contagious in more ways than one as I turn to syrup and honey, and I feel like pancakes-on-a-Sunday-morning, every time its music graces my ears - it really is music.

Your eyes are fallen leaves in autumn and each day the leaves are arranged in a slightly different array of colours than the last, and your eyelashes are the pink blossom in spring. I find myself captured in the flecks of brown, green and red and my whole body focuses on you and your eyes as if nothing in the world could compete - it can't.

Everything about you screams metaphor and simile and paint me and draw me and write about me and think about me, but all I really want to do is admire you and hold you and call you mine.

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I find it much easier to write things about females.