His eyes are striking.


Captivating.


They speak when his mouth can’t.


They are the brown color that comes with the mountains, or a light roast coffee.


They’re the color of wet sand on a cloudy beach.


They sparkle like the stars we gaze at in the back of his pickup when they’re slightly covered in clouds.


I get butterflies when he looks at me.


In my opinion, he’s got looks that could kill.


His voice is the low hum of a bass cello, scratchy and course when something goes wrong.


His voice is the dark purple sky when it’s snowing late at night and flakes fall in front of the street lights.


His laugh is zesty and colorful, but wicked at the same time.


His skin feels like flower pedals.


Without blemish.


He smells like a man.


The strong scent of cologne coming off of his clothes mixes with his minty breath from the gum he’s always chewing.