NOTES ON NAPKINS

Men rarely ever get told they’re beautiful. They should be. You were. You are. You had the kind of beauty that wasn’t glaringly obvious. It crept up on a person like the morning sun. Slowly, but surely – inch by inch until it suddenly dawned on me, covered me in its warmth; until that blinding smile of yours was all I could see. Your beauty could rival the setting sun over the Seine, give the glittering Tokyo lights a run for their money, put the Sierra Nevada to shame. And the realization screamed at me, louder than the roaring Pacific. 

You are beautiful. And I was in love.



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