It happened one day that I met a boy.

     His lips were the perfect shade of pink; his eyes were a rich hazel; his tanned skin made him seem statuesque. Each detail I discovered left me more entranced than the last.With a boy like that, you would think he was almost too good to be true.

     Soon, I had begun to feel as though I had figured him out. Just a beautiful, simple boy. He reminded me of the creek that ran beside my childhood home: wonderfully picturesque, yet dreadfully shallow. I started to feel as though my beautiful boy would be nothing more than a scenic view along my journey to home. I yearned for depth. 

     If I had only known that it was my own clouded judgement that nearly made me loose him. 

     For every detail I had so hastily ingrained into my mind was completely wrong. I had tried too hard to contain his beauty and characterize him. 

     How could I have missed the fact that his lips changed from pastel pink to a deep shade of red after I kissed them?

    How could I have known that tiny freckles appeared on his tanned arms after a day at the beach?

    How could I have known that the same eyes that held a vast forest also contained tiny flecks of gold and amber?

    It seems as though I am left asking myself, 

    How could I have been so blind?