He isn't pretty, exactly. I don't know how to describe him. I don't want to try. Don't want to stick him under a label of objectivity and cut it there. He is more than that.

He isn't pretty.

Sometimes, when he looks at me, I see the sky.

Churning with a thousand simultaneously brewing storms, dark grey clouds encapsulated in his cobalt irises.

Sometimes, when he looks at me, I see the sea.

Gentle swellings of deceiving crests, with a dull roar that can be heard over the rushing of blood in my own ears.

Sometimes, when he looks at me, I see space.

Blue, green, orange; nebulous cobwebs afloat in timeless suspension in some undiscovered corner of the cosmos.

Just sometimes, when he looks at me just right, I feel myself teetering dangerously close to falling. The sun dances shadows onto the ground, stretching in parallel from our feet. It dances golden light into the strands of his golden hair and I am set aflame every time he tilts his head forty golden degrees to the right to brush them off his forehead.

The sun dances infatuation into the lines of my skin and I permit myself to be poisoned by him.

He isn't pretty.

He is infinity, times infinity, times infinity, times infinity.

Falling, falling...

Falling.

And the best day of my life, without a doubt, is the day I fall.

$∆L

let there be light
let there be light
let me be right