The Beginning of a Memoir

The ocean of the stars are no more than the many freckles on the edge of his cheeks, washing over the bridge of his nose, blending into his skin sunken bronze as the glistening sunlight ray over its surface. His eyes spoke emerald, while hiding a mine of lost diamonds. His hair, tree chestnuts and darker, a short cut lawned in carefulness. His mouth rose watered with a soft touched secret. And this, all this, was all I could take in on a glance of observation, not more else aside from his enigma-- a factual mysterious.