From where he stood at the edge of the bed he could just see the top of her head, her hair slightly askew against the bright white of the cotton duvet.
He held a piece of paper that seemed to be gripped. He had rolled it into a tight circle.
In it were a ton of words.
"irreplaceable"
"uncommonly warm in even the slightest of hugs"
"an unexpected kiss in the middle of the day is like a kiss on a prom night"
"chocolate syrup eyes, candy colored lips"
A collection of words that he had painstakingly tried to write her and make it legible. His weakest point was when the pen met the paper...he might be able to write but he suffered terribly at handwriting.
He had wanted to describe her like a painting...a pastel. Broad colors versus cold specifics.
He had wanted to describe her like a aged bourbon...complex in its tastes...the first warm notes and the very last hints.
He wanted to describe her like a summer day with sand and sun and tan lines and the scent of sunscreen. He wanted her to be like an autumn fire, of burning leaves...
Mostly he wanted her to feel completely and utterly unique...despite the fact that his words had multiplied over times and years and he sometimes faltered at adequately describing the uniqueness that he felt. That was his limitation...that was his ignorance.
He couldn't properly tell her about the billion things he worshipped about her because he only knew a million words.
He crumpled up the paper in his hands and let her sleep. He knew he could always try to convince her that she was indescribable.
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