unspoken

In hues of love, a tale unfolds, Of beauty undiscovered, yet untold. "And perhaps," she thought, with doubts in sight, Unaware of the artistry, her heart's delight. If I were a writer of novels profound, Each love interest shaped like her, I'd expound. For in every drawing she so gracefully wove, A masterpiece emerged, her essence, I behove. Her strokes on paper, like whispers of grace, Left indelible marks, my heart could not erase. Yet she couldn't fathom, the magic she spun, The brilliance within her, like the morning sun. Her eyes, the palette, reflecting the skies, A canvas of dreams where my affection lies. Her laughter, a symphony, echoing afar, The rhythm of love, a celestial memoir. In every tender moment, I find my repose, Her soulful portrait, an enchanting prose. Her presence a verse, in the poetry of life, A dance with the stars, amidst twilight's strife. Oh, how I wish she'd see the splendor she's sown, The blossoms of love in the gardens grown. For her artistry is more than colors collide, It's the tender emotions, two hearts coincide. And so, I'll be here, an admirer unknown, An unspoken sonnet, to her heart, I've throw.