I cannot remember the colour of your eyes.
After all the times I have stared in to them,
Out of no obligation of any sort

I don't know what your skin feels like.
I cannot describe it even when my nerve endings
keep craving for your touch

I do not remember the sound of your Laugh,
and I still keep cracking bad puns
Just to hear it again and again.

How warm is your hand against mine?
I cannot recall while I weave lore of vampires and werewolves falling in love.

I have never counted your moles,
even though they fascinate me.
They enchant me in moments of silence.

Maybe you are the book that I can't quote.
I keep forgetting the plot and the characters.
I still insist it is my favourite.

I cannot remember the color of your eyes.
Maybe I was too busy staring.

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