His hair is the grass turned flaxen beneath my feet— mowed down in places, sticking straight up in others, but soft as silk in any state.
His eyes are the moment when you look into the mouth of a large cave, and you can't imagine how deep it is, or what lies within it.
His touch is fire, searing my skin, and spreading warmth throughout my body.
His voice is a newborn kitten, innocent, purring, and nuzzling into my neck.
His skin is a blank canvass, on which I can imagine my own markings, painted in mauve, crimson, and the color of a blackberry that remains unripe.
I know him.
I know the feeling of his hair, gently falling through my fingers like water through a colander.
I know his eyes, as if I was looking into a mirror, and I didn't know who I was.
I know his touch, triggering every nerve in my skin underneath his fingers, and creating unnoticed goosebumps.
I know his voice, how he whispers something dirty that he doesn't want the others overhearing, or laughs at a ludicrous joke, or how it raises when he gets angry.
I know his skin, how it bounces with youth when disturbed and how it tears more easily than its appearance suggests.
He knows me.
He knows my hair: tangled, dirty, laden with leaves — curly, wicked, and too damn recognizable.
He knows my eyes, similar to his, but a complete ersatz…arrogant, teary, weak, aggravating.
He knows my touch…my curious, eager fingers, as they ghost over places they shouldn't, and start arguments.
He knows my voice, though he fails to recognize its beauty, and ignores the passion which no longer exists as a result of trying too hard to please him.
He knows my skin, and its perennial peeling — its blistering sunburns.
He does not know, however, of my admiration toward him.
I will always remember his lack of admiration toward me.