Maybe it was his eyes, how they glistened in the light.
Or maybe his smile, always smirking yet he never frowned.(at least not with me)
Or his chiseled chest, how it looked to be carved by angels.
Maybe it was his hands, lined in artwork from different artist...
I remember sitting up at all hours of every night watching him writing words which seemed to flow out of him like a waterfall. Beautiful words to beautiful hands to a pen which did the magic. How I wish I could be that pen between his fingers. Feeling the warmth, the tension in which he held the pen while deep in thought. Those were the nights, the amazement he filled me with. Who ever knew someone could get so much excitement out of watching someone write. his mind... who ever knew a mind could also cause so much excitement. The words that floated from his mind to the pen he held made me wish I could just get inside that head of his if not for just one minute he could let me in and just explore the inner workings of such a creature of perfection. I could find out if I was in there at all. What he really thought of me. What his plans were, his dreams. I know I could ask, but why? Why would I ask? There's more excitement from not knowing. Not knowing whats in his head. Not knowing where those beautiful words come from. There's excitement from a lot of things I don't know that keep me guessing everyday. What I have for him is not infatuation, nor admiration, not even love, no its way more than love. Its an addiction. An addiction to this beautiful man. This man I see every day yet never get tired of. I know this is so cliche' to say but he's like my own personal heroin. There isn't much else to say.. but watching him everyday, every night, even the hours a pen is not in his hand, is like making love to Shakespeare.