You looked good last Sunday, as always, but I tried to understate it.
Your dress matched perfectly with the exquisite glow of your skin. The subtle patterns playfully tease every curve in your body, as if taunting even Time itself of its inability to cope with your beauty. With every gust of wind the fabric strokes every inch of alabaster-smooth perfection, envious and resentful yet praising all the same. Even in the fading daylight, you shone with all the splendour of a haughty goddess.
You looked good yesterday, as always, but I tried to underestimate it.
My resolve faltered when I chanced upon that trademark pout of your sultry lips. My knees weakened when with those same lips you smiled, like a thousand candles burning my thoughts away. And your eyes, so filled with love, your eyes raped my being. Held captive then tormented and tortured and left in desolation. Your eyes seized my soul and whispered endearments that opened the very gates of heaven itself.
You looked good today, as always, and I tried to understand it. But alas, dearest, I realised you only look good when I want you to be.