My Padawan is not a remarkably good-looking young man.
I look over at him, as I reflect, though I don't need to; he's been at my
side long enough that I can see him when I close my eyes. But I do look,
and carefully, too. He doesn't know I'm watching him -- he's wrapped up in
fixing something minute and electronic, and it occupies all his
concentration. His tongue is between his teeth, and his brow is knit,
drawing his eyes closer together.
Those eyes. They're not anything special, when one comes down to it -- not
a particularly interesting color, sort of a watery grey-green, and set,
actually, just a little further apart than they should be. And his lips,
tightening at the moment around his tongue -- there's nothing actually
wrong with them, but there are certainly lips lusher, and fuller, calling to mind ripe fruit, lips that cause one on sight to forget everything but
them. My love's lips are nothing of the sort.
His skin is smooth and unblemished, but quite pale; the freckles he gets in
the sunlight do nothing to improve his complexion, especially when his hair
reddens -- there are times when he just looks orange. And that hair, with
or without the red highlights, is a rather uninspiring shade of dusty light
brown. It would be soft to touch, if he were allowed to grow it, but
otherwise it has nothing to recommend it highly.
His voice, while smooth and even and pleasant, is far from the sweetest
sound I've ever heard -- how could it be, when the galaxy is full of glass
flutes and water-harps and all such music that brings tears to the eyes of
men? And he moves, yes, with a certain ingrained fluidity and gracefulness
-- but he walks, and walks with both feet on the floor, like all the rest of
us.
No, there's nothing, really, to set him apart from anyone else; not his
looks, or his skills, or any of those things that lovers usually praise --
apart from the fact that I love him with my whole heart and soul. That
makes him more precious to me than the finest spun gold, sparkling jewels,
and other rareties that fantastical dreamers invoke when describing their
lovers. Let them have their starry eyes, and their silken skin, and their
rose-petal lips -- I have my Obi-Wan.
My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips' red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damask'd, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
Sonnet CXXX
William Shakespeare
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