The sap green is subtle and faint like the delicate pattering of rain on forest foliage.
It is intriguing in the manner of whispered secrets or ambiguous smiles;
leaving one to ponder endlessly about the proprietor, whose refined demeanor is equally captivating.
The cerulean is even more inconspicuous, tenuously cradling the green like a
cocoon does the fragile body of a butterfly or a blanket a dormant new born.
It reflects the aged spirit and intellect of one who reads the obscure works of classic poets or writes in the dialect of ancient philosophers.
Flecks of amber fringe the pupils, emitting a sincere glimmer of wit.
And my infatuation ensues.