Her beauty is inexplicable. It is beyond words, beyond songs, beyond ballads, beyond poetry and prose, beyond the feeble power of any form of mortal communication. Big, black, beautiful pure eyes, with a hint of conflicting sadness. Eyes that have seen her through situations unmentionable, and yet and keen on embracing every moment with the most glorious of twinkles. Eyes that look at him with insurmountable, insane and incredible love. Eyes that drink him in with their mystique and power to captivate even the most callous of souls.
Delicious lips. Uneven, yet the epitome of perfection. A full, ripe, quivering lower lip and a thin, hardly-there upper one. Lips that talk without speaking, emote without moving. A smile that pierces her eyes, radiating beauty that's almost unbearable. You can see how perfect that ring you are going to give her is going to look on her right hand. She is beyond beautiful to you.
So intense that you want to cup her in your palms and keep her there forever. Protect her from the gashes this cruel life might inflict on her. Keep her safe in the store of your heart, let her live off you.
And that perfectly synchronised dance that her eyes and lips perform together? A stolen glance with a mischievous smile, a caressing gaze with a knowing spreading of her lips. Ah! The sheer magnificence of it could make you cry. Her uneven, small teeth. The way she presses her lips between them, each time she fails to get away with a prank, arouses you in a way nothing else ever can. They way her jaw moves oh-so-mildly every time her lips utter melodious words.
Her voice. Hypnotising, mesmerising. How it wraps you in endless warmth every time you hear it. Her skin, with all its unevenness and imperfections, is the embodiment of perfection to you. The freckles, the crinkling the skin around her eyes every time she cringes at something you say, the lifting up of her cheeks every time you plant a kiss upon them, the radiance of it every time a bead of sweat rolls off her forehead.
The way her unruly hair fall around her face. Fall over her eyes, across her delicate forehead, stick to the nape of her neck.....her beautiful, slender neck. The way it sways every time she turns to look at you, the way it arches every time you make love to her, the way it twitches every time you kiss it. The way the small of her back fits perfectly under your hands. The way the fat around her waist helps you hold on to her tighter. How her lithe hands play with yours, blessing them with their short-lived moment of grace.
You picked at her. You picked at every part. Picked at every fibre of her being. You picked her apart. And then, you scatter them. Scatter them all on the ground. Scatter them like they mean nothing. Scatter them like they aren't her. Scatter her apart. And then, you stomp over them. Stomp over all the ghastly pieces. Stomp over the words unspoken, the memories yet to be perfected, the love yet to be immortalised. Stomp over her existence. Stomp her apart. And then, you redesign them. Redesign each one of them. Redesign them to suit your thoughts, your feelings, and your insecurities. Redesign her to be you. Redesign her apart. And then, you cut through the rotten ones. Cut through the dreams, the aspirations, and the moments of pride. Cut through them, stab the fucking life out of them. Cut through her. Cut her apart. And then, you pick her. Pick her up. Pick up every piece. Pick up every fallen part of her, Pick her together. And then, you reassemble them. Reassemble the hope, the life, and the glint in the eye. Reassemble them to be her. Reassemble her together. And then, you caress them. Caress every piece. Caress every emotion, every tear, every smile back into them. Caress her. Caress her together. And then, you cater to the bruises you left. Cater to every gashed attempt, every bruised love, and every dented success. Cater to her. Cater her together. And then, you restore her. Restore every piece of her. Restore her mistakes, her successes, her insecurities, and her strength. Restore her. Restore her together. And then, you glue her. Glue every fibre of her being back together. Glue her back together to form a perfectly imperfect person.
She is her. Or is she you? She is back. She is living her life. Or is she living yours? She is back. She is restored. Or is she destroyed to be you? They were right, weren't they? Love can't be put into words. Her beauty and detriment can't be put into words. It is beyond words, beyond songs, beyond ballads, beyond poetry.