Your lover's eyes are nothing like the sun, but they do glow, like fine obsidian or onyx, flaring with inclusion light. His lips are coral pink, or perhaps that pink you find, deep within a conch shell, that seems to radiate the promise of something deeper, further in. They are thin, but then yours are not plush, and they fit together like fine ribbons intertwining.
His skin has a burnished glow, healthy and robust, of a life lived outdoors doing leg-work, real work, whereas you spend far too much time indoors in closed offices with no windows. You would not have him as snow white as you and you love the contrast when his body is draped across yours—chiaroscuro.
On his head, it is black silken threads that grow, dusted with snow as on a wintry evening. You found a picture of him once at twenty-two, his hair dark and lush, baby-faced and cherubic, and though it made you go a bit weak in the knees, you prefer him now, maturity granting him gravitas. And roses do bloom in his cheeks, translucent powder pink on his olive skin.
His voice is pleasant and low, commanding without being harsh. He can play the good cop and the bad cop with equal ease. He can sound understanding, inviting the criminal to bare his soul, but can demand the answers just as well, and get them. He dislikes his West Country accent, but you adore it. That little slip that speaks of a life experienced, not observed.
Though he is sturdy in build, there is a slimness there that harkens back to that cherubic youth when he was nearly feminine in his beauty. This duality returns then to those eyes, large and round, inviting and intense, soft yet piercing.