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.