She's got the most gorgeous blue eyes. They are huge and round, and they stare in a way that never ceases to make me uncomfortable. And shivery with delight.
In her eyes I see the troubles of the world. Those eyes watched her mother die; those eyes saw the Department of Mysteries incident. Those eyes have fed on harsh sunlight and poured forth countless tears.
But those eyes, full of stormy waves, have a cornflower-hued innocence to them even through the weariness. They believe unquestioningly, they laugh merrily, they love unconditionally.
Her eyes reveal her beauty.
Her eyes are fearless.
-=-=-=-
She has the softest red hair. Its varied, silky strands tell me ancient tales of courage and passion. Her hair sings to me as I lie watching her sleep.
It's about fire. It reminds me of the spice trade of India and tempestuous lovers. She herself is far from tempestuous – she's straightforward and warmhearted.
Those rich tones in her hair sing of gold – not that she has or wants it. But her aura gives off a distinct wealth. Maybe it's the wealth of sweetness that bubbles beneath the surface.
Her hair reveals her passion.
Her hair is fearless.