In A White

I saw him, simple in a white shirt,

yet it clothed him like a crown of quiet grace.

His hair, soft as the memory of spring,

healthy, flowing, touched with the calm of dawn.

And oh—his lips, carved with a tender smile,

a smile that lingers like a song remembered.

It suits him always, as though the heavens

meant for joy to rest upon his face.

His eyes—so beautiful, not just in shape,

but in the way they hold the world,

as if gentleness itself found a home there.

His nose, so charming, his brows, strong and sure,

each part of him a portrait of warmth.