So it was true what Keats said, he mused in a kind of daze, bizarrely flashing back to the lines from one of his Uncle Wellie’s many books. “Beauty is truth, truth beauty, – that is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.”
It must be true, because he looked into her eyes and saw the truth of his future unfolding before him. True passion. True commitment. Truly living. And everything else dimmed in its presence. The truth was hers was a spectacular face: dark eyes, skin the colour of a dark even tan, a snub nose, rose petal lips. If he had to describe it, an impossible task, he would say she most resembled those so called “exotic” Mexican girls in those old Westerns they showed late at night on TV.
But there was something angelic about that face, and a bit of the devil there too. A man could spend lifetimes pealing away the layers of that face and still never quite know its beauty. He wanted to drink that face and eat it, lick it, kiss it, consume it. He wanted to run his fingers through her silky-looking brown hair; to feel beauty’s texture and tickle his fingers across love, touch love.
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