To him she was painting, made in blood and flesh,
To him she was song, written in skin and bones.
To him her face was like the morning dew; all clear, calm and fresh,
He said she was a sparkling necklace, made up of precious stones.
He thought so differently about her, it made her smile and cry,
To the world she was maniac, no less than the wild rye.
He made her feel celestial, yet he called it less than love,
He looked in her deep brown eyes but never dared to dive.
She laughed her sorrows off with him, but never called it love,
She knew going ahead with this, would cost her a million lies.
He seemed to care for her so deeply,
She always reciprocated with a destructive solar flare.
It was until one day when his patience died, he crossed the barriers to fly,
It was then when she realized that her eyes had lost their glare.
It was his care and affection, that pumped her up with life,
With him gone away, she was left with nothing but sorrow.
That He would come back to bring her back at fife,
She waited with this hope, looking ahead to that happy tomorrow.
And when he did come back,
She held him like her life.
He wiped her tears quickly, before she started to crack,
Just this was how their story was set to ignite.
She held his hand and they looked into the mirror,
They saw all that was clear and nice.
They saw two; a dove with a rock dove,
And it exactly looked a little less than love!