Wet Grass

She sits in the shade, when everyone else plays under the sun, brushing those wavy black curls with her fingers. She is just so beautiful, the way she talks, the way she thinks, the way she looks at me and above all the way she loves. I love it when she starts a conversation with her wise observations, witty comments and how she trails off topic, as if she has lost interest. I love the way she sucks her lips, when she is trying to concentrate. I love how she pretends to understand all the dirty jokes, her fake laughs, the way she ignores compliments because she doesn't know how to react. I love how she can be completely innocent one minute and shamelessly inappropriate the next. I love the sound of her hiccupy laugh, even when it is loud and weird.  I love how her lips curl downwards when she smiles.I love to just look at her, I could do it for hours, or even days maybe. Looking at her, God, it is like standing on wet grass, bare feet; stinging yet soothing, so refreshing. She is just so beautiful, the way she looks, the way she thinks, the way she talks, the way she looks at me and above all the way she loves. But sometimes I wish, I was the one she loved and from the way she looks at me perhaps she wishes the same.