I could write love letters to eir face.

Ey hate eir beauty, does't ey ?
I think I understand why. Ey may think "what did this face ever bring to me ?". Somehow...
However, what ey may not realise, it's what it brings to me. How I shiver. It's that I could write love letters to eir face.

A daily present lingering upon my eyes. Eir beauty, eir brightness, eir unbelievable face and frame, a kind of miracle.
These eyes - how can eyes be so striking ? They tear me, deep behind the walls where I hide. These lips - how can lips be so perfectly drawn ? They speak the sharpest words, they move me to the core, yet I'm craving, and fighting the impulse of a fleeting kiss.
And freckles ! And translucent skin, bristled with fair hair, and the perfect brows' arch in the quiet harmony of eir features, and eir hands around, so graceful - how can ey be so slender, so strong, and dainty and frail and sharp ?

…I could write love letters to eir face. I never think eirs to be possible.
Oh, the blessing, the unquenchable pleasure to look at eir !

I write love letters to eir face.