Goosebumps, spiked, with oodles of Cheddar

Those ruffles of black soft unkempt boyish neat hair. Even bees hovering around made it seem sculpture. Those little sleep starved eyes carved in hollow slits of the white landscape of your face with high cheek bones and open pores that I could count. Lips were insignificant except for the wine smell that flew through them. The nose was calm yet protruding like some ageing iceberg. It brushed past when you pecked my cheek. Cheesy, I know. The flutter of the heart when people aren't taught that goodbyes never accompany brushing the cheek. A mere mannerism in the air. Or, the hand on the spine, just the right firmness and the correct unsure touch. The other hand admires the curve of the neck while the head tilts and seeks approval only in the eye. The morning sunlight tans it and you are melted pleasant for the rest of my day.