Tell her

Tell her that she made you feel.
Because you don't feel.
Tell her what you see. 
Because she doesn't see. 

Tell her that you liked her hair, ashen rubellite and amethyst, curling at the tips like a calla Lily night cap, or burning paper, and bound loosely by a kaleidoscope of fabrics. 

Tell her that her brown eyes and the smoked coral powder she had pressed against her outer lids, and the flecks of gold that decorated each corner and curve, was a piece of renaissance art. 

Tell her that you think about her. Much more often than you should. Because in reality she met you only once. Even though you meet her in pastel visions and fantasies, every time you see trees of a particular viridescent.

Tell her that her voice was a remedy for your melancholia, and any concept she kissed with that silvery voice was instantaneously paramount to you, and nothing else mattered. 
 
Tell her that for the duration of your time with her, you forthwith saw the world in iridescent light, a light she must own, because you cannot experience it anywhere else, no matter how hard you try. 

Tell her that you could so effortlessly love her. 
Because you can love.
Tell her how you see her.
Because she doesn't see you.