QuietThoughts

A young man with loose curly hair--the color of early fall chestnuts--that raggedly flirts with his dark brown eyebrows. His eyes, sage in color, have the depth of someone who I would think of as being older; but the softness of the cheek, still pale rose in hue, confirms the youth that the eyes betray. They sit widely over a slightly wide sloping nose. Though not the coloring of a castrato, the cherubness of his face makes me think that if he were to sing I would think of angels. That is until I see the thinness of lips, which seem almost incongruent in nature. As if the life, still yet incomplete in its formation, could become harsh and cruel. And yet as the light shifts, I see the boy who could easily still swing from a rope into a lake and laugh, childlike in the sunlight, desperately holding on to the last bits of youth which are inevitably slipping away.