You were beautiful. And I was me. Now I’m not saying I’m not attractive, but see when I see you? You’re like a two hundred and fifteen out of ten, and I’m barely clutching onto that one spot, at the end of the scale.
And you are beautiful. When I see you, my eyes light up, and I try and come up with words to say to you, that don’t make me sound completely ridiculous. Like “What did you have for breakfast?” Or “Are you good at calculus?” I forget that my words aren’t supposed to be slurred, or jumbled. You leave me speechless.
And you are so beautiful. That if I could spend even a day making sure your smile never left from in between your lips, I would. Because I want to have that crazy love. That stay out all night, not remembering what happened, because we stayed up too late talking, and things became hazy, kind of love. That drinking from the same straw of a milkshake at the mall kind of love. That embarrassing, I don’t even care, kind of love. That show you off, because you’re the best thing that ever happened to me, kind of love. That love that makes all your friends jealous, kind of love. That zealous kind of love. That I’ll carry your umbrella for you kind of love, just because I love you, kind of love.
And to me? You are so beautiful. And me? I find you mesmerizing and fantastic, and so many other adjectives. And if I had a matchstick with me, I’d light it, and burn every writing I’ve ever done, because you’re the one I want to be with, and I’m stating that your rating of two hundred and fifteen, just went up one. I fall for you more every day. May the ground be soft.