He has yet to say he likes the red hue of my hair,
Or the way my eyes become more green with every glance and stare.
He's yet to say it looks nice curled or in a bun,
Or that I looked good without makeup when he drove me home at 1.
Not once has he took the chance to say that I look cute, or hot or pretty.
But instead, all he's said, is that he thinks I'm rather witty.
He's never called me gorgeous and so I'm not sure how,
But unlike the rest he makes me feel beautiful somehow.
YOU ARE READING
What We Wouldn't Say Aloud
PoetryAnd it's in these moments, when all we can do is feel that one begins to whisper words into paper.
