His blue eyes,

Cool like the arctic breeze,

Glare in my direction,

Burning holes into me.

His plump, pink lips,

Shiny from feeling the need to lick them,

Perheps have never felt love,

But only lust and hatred.

His soft, yet rigid, brown hair,

Styled with either too much hairspray or gel,

Slicked up to a point,

Causing the rigid look and texture.

His large hands,

Figiting with one another,

Are reflective with sweat,

From nervousness, I suppose.

His style, oh lord.

His slim, denim jeans, ripped at the knees,

His white and floral "Vans" tee shirt,

His black and white Vans,

Earrings like sparkling diamonds,

And a beanie or maybe a snapback,

On some days.

He's perfect.

(A.D.)