RIGHT IN SO MANY WRONG WAYS

She is perfectly exquisite—in every which way.

She is exquisitely perfect—in every which way.

Underneath the moonlight, her characteristics are defined and sharpened by the elegant, pale light that seems to be made to shadow her skin flawlessly. Each movement of hers does not go unnoticed by me, and each movement of hers captivates me. The fluidity in which she performs her actions, the gracefulness in which she executes them—it frightens yet compels me.

Her presence is unlike what I have ever known. An aura of dignity and grace surrounds her in whatever she does, and I cannot help but watch with an awed expression.

A lovesick boy, that is all I am.

That is all she ever considers me as.

She does not know that it might—and is—much more than that.

She does not understand that infatuation can only go so far, and that I have already exhausted and exceeded those limits.

She does not know. She does not understand. She cannot even begin to comprehend the depths of what I feel for her.

What I feel for her is beyond the blazing passions of an ordinary boy—I feel for her the burning flames of hell.

Looking upon her face, to me, is like looking upon the palpable form of beauty gifted on this earth. It hurts to look at her—but I cannot look away.

I care for her. I wish for her. I yearn for her.

I hate her.

Yet I love her.

She is a mesmerizing creature. She is a dangerous creature.

The way her long lashes kiss her pale cheeks whenever she blinks—the tiniest movement like that is already too much for me. But when she proceeds to walk, and to speak—it is pure torture.

She is wrong for me in so many right ways.

She is right for me in so many wrong ways.

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A/N; Yeesh! Greatly emotional, much? O.O