She is so pretty it hurts to look at her.
To look at her is as captivating as a moth to a flame.
As a creator to his creation like that of Pygmalion to Galatea.
Those yellowish-brown eyes, so incandescent in their greatness. All other eyes, unparalleled.
Her smile lines are perfect, as if they were meant to be on that face, inimitable.
I see her fully on the outside, but god, I wish to see her on the inside. To know the waters that run through her. “I beg of thee, to immerse yourself over me, let me feel the power in your floods. My whole being is open to the pureness that you have within you!” my soul cries aloud inside me!…oh, how my soul cries to know hers.
It hurts to look at her. To look at her, envisioning what she may contain inside her, is like parasitic insects eating away at my insides or like a lasting relationship that only goes as far as the constant throbbing of blue balls, climax unattainable.
It hurts to look at her. For to look at her is to long for God to be closer to you. To long for his perfect love to be felt by your imperfect heart.
To look at her is to feel the empty space that is between your desires and her frivolousness, of the condition.
It hurts to look at her. For to look at her is to be reminded of the dreams you have of her undisclosed insides. Stuck with only the sight of her yellowish-brown eyes and smile lines.
It mustn’t remain like this. Everything that she is, everything that she has is so pretty, that it simply hurts.