She's as fragile as glass, as thin as paper, you can't let her go, she'll be destroyed.
It's scary to look at her too long; she won't judge , but others might. It's hard to believe that she looks they way she does so effortlessly.
Her face is as smooth as silk, her cheeks are decorated with freckles that dance across her face, much like the stars in the night sky.
Her eyes are blue, green, silver and gold, they look up to the sky dreaming, hoping and praying. They contain all the starts, all the constellations and all the galaxies.
Her skin lingers with a faint scent of lemongrass, pale and smooth and laces with weary traces of sleep.
Her lips are laced with hints of sugary-sweet peach, the bittersweet tang of apple juice. They shine with pale pink gloss, not too much because she's afraid to show off.
She's sweet like birthday cake, story time or crisp autumn leaves. She gives off a peaceful, kind aura, one you'd never want to live without.
She wears cute pastel outfits that are perfect for her style. Her hair is surrounded by a fluffy halo of flowers that form a crown, resting gently above her eyes.
She looks like something from and old magazine, a Polaroid picture, an aesthetic tumblr post.
But no matter how close we may be in proximity, we couldn't be farther apart.
To her, I smell of sadness. To her, I smell of bland, dry and empty hearts. To her, I am nothing.
Oh, how I'll dream of gazing into those galaxy eyes, how I'll dream of holding her close and breathing in the tart lemongrass and sleep scent, watching her whisper and sing with those lips that taste of apple juice and peach. Oh, I'll dream.
She means everything to me and yet I'm better off watching.
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