To what do I compare?

Which blue was deeper? I asked myself. That which dresses the Marianas, or the ones that turned your pupils into the island, in which I was cheerfully stranded? Which fragrance upon thine whole earth, oh great creator, would be the very best; That which you poured into the roses of tea which breath character into the passing breeze, or that which glazes her flesh? I would stare upon her person with an intrigue, comparable only to the wonder in a mother's eyes as she remains ever so still gazing upon her child. In her slumber, as the sun gave birth to the day and traveled across the silky texture of her skin, my senses would argue endlessly, over which one of them knew her best.