She'd expect me to describe her freckles.
Believing they were all that people saw; yet they were mildy raindrops of colour that kissed her face.

Or maybe they didn't bother her at all, maybe her discontent for herself lay deeper than so,
so deep her worries were unrecognizable to others,
Or perhaps too below the surface for anyone to take the time to discover;

perchance in the fear of their own suffocation.

Yet warmth still radiated off of her skin, and words of cognizance
dripped off her tongue
in a way similiar to that of lazy drops of water on a closed faucet.

Her eyes,
dark pools stained with swirls of cinnamon,
continued to have the same calming effect as that of a melancholic sunset.

More so,
if looked into at the right moment,
its possible to begin to understand the meaning of companionship,
the mere contentedness of old friends
and laughter,
followed by the yearning of someone to love,
and to be loved in return.

Blue eyes.
Yet those eyes were purple, golden, even red;
for those eyes were any colour you wanted them to be.
For those eyes believed what you saw and tried to see the world as you saw it.

The sun shines through those eyes, glinting at you with every emotion ever perceived to be true.

The moon lurks behind those eyes, ready to be noticed when you finally find yourself really looking at her;
Only then realising that not everyone needs the shine of a star to captivate a room.

For the moon will never fail to illuminate you in even the darkest of glooms.

For the moon learns to glimmer in its own alluring way.