If I could draw, you would be my only muse.
If I could draw, I’d spend ages on your face, perfecting every detail.
I’d go over your eyes a million times, trying to capture their icy intricacies; exactly the way they looked the first time they caught my gaze.
I’d get your hairline just right, sans gel.
I’d spend an eternity on your scar, sketching every jut and jagged point, as it jolts down to your lips.
I’d make it my priority to focus on your mouth—every pearly white—even if they aren’t real.
I’d get the crook just right, your famous half-smile, conveying the most perfect balance of curiosity and interest.
If I could draw, I’d spend forever sketching you, only for the finished product to simply act as a mediocre memoir for something that is just too unique to ever get right on paper.
But that wouldn’t stop me from trying my damnedest.