crying shame

God he’s beautiful. I love diving into those large almond-shaped indigo blue eyes and swimming there for a while. Those watery orbs mesmerize, draw me in, make me swoon.

Man he’s perfect. His skin ... it’s superb, all silky smooth like Japanese mochi rice cakes.  Flawless, with a happy sprinkling of tiny brown freckles here and there—on his cheek, his left angel bone, matching speckles on his bicep and forearm and one fleck on his tush.

Geez what a looker. That thick mass of auburn hair that any woman would kill for—shiny, too. And what a smile, with it’s tiny matching dimples at the edges of his lower lip near his chin—sends me to nirvana every time I see it, feel it. What a cute little rascal.

Dammit all. Why, when my boy is so extraordinarily lovely inside and out, did he have to be born with a brain missing pieces? It's a crying shame. A dirty trick. A sick joke.

Insert F-bomb here.

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