It may be a fog that blinds certain realities: like a bearded female; a body where the fat has convened in the wrongest of places; eyes that you are so sure will pop out of their sockets if she stares at the floor; among other certainties.
The fog maybe so thick, so as to blind the inner eye. You become blind to maybe, character. Your boys (external reasoning) or your (inner) reasoning will point them out to you. But the fog of love has descended and you are blinded to these realities.
But even within this fog, there still is a form of clarity: that which you see or you think you do, or that which you subconsciously see that draws you to her; which no one may see. It may seem so inane that when you’re asked, you would be so guarded as to utter it: that smile, that look, the gentle-breeze touch of her finger tips; the ears that don’t bore at your words and all those other mushy love things.
Then with time, clarity, like daybreak, dawns; reason finally takes hold and intuition becomes relegated; the juice of blooming love is sucked and only the pulp remains; it is then and only then the fog is extinguished. And your sight becomes restored.