We'd see each other every day. That is, I'd notice you and you'd glance at me. I told you "I love your hair." See, I've always had a weakness for brunettes. You were gracious and said "thank you" and went back to your phone. I was, after all, a gentleman.
But I wanted to say more. Maybe things you might consider ungentlemanly.
I wanted to say I'd love to run my fingers through it while we sat by the campfire. I wanted to say I'd love to see your hair spilled out on the pillow, or watch you as you sit on the tub edge and brush it. I wanted to say I'd like you see you on the beach, with the wind blowing it all about. I wanted to say I could see a day when your perfect brown hair is laced with gray, and still want to look at it. I wanted to say that if a day ever came where it started to fall out due to some health calamity I'd still be there. I wanted to say if you sheared it off to donate to charity, I'd notice you even more.
I wanted to say all those things, but of course I didn't .
Anyway-I love your hair.