You think your eyes are nothing special, but I sit hoping you'll see the same glitter I gaze into each time they meet mine.
You say your smile is crooked and regret not having braces years ago, but when the corners of it turn upwards after I make some witty remark or cynical joke, I experience a feeling like no other; there isn't much I wouldn't do to see that happen.
That mole, that birthmark, that odd little scar that sits right below your left eye, somehow is my favorite feature - solely because it is uniquely a part of you, and you alone.
Your fingernails are short, and you can never paint your dominant hand. But why should I care, as long as your fingers are laced around mine?
You trip in heels.
Your lips get chapped.
Your tan never lasts as long as you hope.
You know you're far from perfect; but how boring would that be?
