I saw the most beautiful girl today.
When first looking at her, I thought that I recognized her. Shaking that idea from my mind, I said to myself, “I would have remembered seeing a face like that.”
I believe it was her eyes. They were so deep that, when looking into them, I felt myself falling into the rabbit hole like Alice. They were richly brown. When she first glanced at me, I almost mistook her eyes to be the color of ebony, but upon further scrutiny, streaks of chocolate were apparent. These lines of color were subtle, subtle like the smile playing on her lips.
When the corner of her lips curved slightly upward, she became an angel. The smile was so small, and yet it brought so much life to her expression. Her smile was so little that her skin did not wrinkle, yet the happiness still managed to reach her eyes, the eyes that embodied every human emotion experienced.
Her eyes carried passion, whether it be in fury or joy, loathe or love. It made me wonder what she had witnessed to possess eyes so knowledgeable, and yet so innocent.
Her jawline was handsome, sloping gently from the ears to the chin. Her nose was feminine, but not small. If I was to study her face beginning at the chin and leading my eyes upwards, her nose would serve as the perfect guide to her eyes—the eyes that were dry, yet looked as if wet with tears, tears from laughter or sadness, I do not know.
Hair flowed from the top of her head down to her bosom. Upon first glance, I thought her hair to be dark, as if cast under a tree’s shadow. However, when in the sunlight, her hair shimmered between blond and caramel and auburn. The strands fell elegantly, as if they carried absolutely no weight at all.
The girl had a motherly and lovely face, striking and soft, strong and loving, exhibiting maturity and childish wonder, begging to be touched.
Whenever a moment came that I thought I would be able to tear my eyes away, treat her like another stranger, and continue walking, something in her expression brought me back.
I wanted to kiss her.
This type of kiss was not out of lust or love, desperation or affection. It was simply a kiss that can be given from a mother to her child, from a gentleman to his lover, from a citizen to a king. A kiss that is meant to be simple. A kiss of purity.
Ever so slowly, I began walking towards her. She did not drop her gaze from me, continuing to stare with her mystical eyes.
I stood on my tip toes as she bowed her head, all too familiar with the net that was her beauty, catching bystanders everywhere she went.
Gracefully, I lowered my chin by an inch and laid a kiss upon her forehead.
Her skin was an iceberg.
The cold forced me stumbling backwards. It cracked my lips and gave them the sensation of being burned, cut. The frigidness encompassed my body, cell by cell, rapid, but slow enough that I could sense its path of travel. Small, blue flecks connected by thin wire, tightening around me. My muscles screeched, throat swelled. My heart mistakenly believed I was being frozen, and for one quick moment it stopped beating.
The pain subsided and I was once again basking in the spring sunlight.
She showed some concern. Her shapely eyebrows furrowed delicately. Her lips parted barely, creating a small dark oval in the center of dark crimson.
Swiftly, I stood, provided a curt nod, and turned to walk away. I only looked back once. When I did, I thought to myself, “She is the most beautiful girl.”
I did not go back. Rather, I continued with my mundane life.
I still wait for the day that I will be able to see the most beautiful girl again.