I never found him good looking at first
He shaved whenever he wanted, not when he had too
His eyes were a deep blue, the type that the ocean turns at night
No, he wasn't what I called good looking,
He was art. The type that is placed at museums
The type that attracts your eye as soon as you step in, even if you tried to avoid it
Art isn't supposed to be beautiful, nor popular.
It's supposed to make you feel something.
It's supposed to enter the depths of your heart
So whenever my friends ask what I find him in
I do not hesitate to say I find a perfect art buried in his soul
And you my friend don't need to know what kind of art I find
For I have the key to this treasure in him
Not you
