AnAlmost..
He's the most fantastic boy I've ever met.
He leaves traces of poetry on everything he touches, for the most beautiful poems are engraved into his fingertips. Dried paint, in hues of blue, is permanently embedded underneath his nails.
He's so elegant, with a graceful swan neck, and a laugh that is in perfect time with his heartbeat.
His ocean eyes that beg you to swim in them, count to eternity when he blinks.
In the middle of the night, he shakes his messy chocolate curls out, gasping for breath..as if to shake away the past. To push it all away.
He's fighting his demons.
He's trying to break free of a world he left behind in a past life. Regret consuming him.
(The couldhavebeen's are always more promising in the rearview mirror.)
He shrugs out of embraces, with an apology in his eyes.
('You can look, but don't touch.' - We share the same fear of fingeprints being left on our pale skin.)
At shows, his smooth voice floats over the ricocheting mess of noise that surrounds him.
Occasionally, it sounds a bit gritty, and I catch a faint smile gracing his lips.
He took up smoking years ago, hoping to one day achieve the perfect blend of ethereal and realistic.
(He succeeded.)
His eyes always scan the crowds when he plays, searching her out. And the glow in them mirrors her when she finally appears.
I wanted to tell you of him. I wanted to share with you, the beauty of him, but to do so I would have to mention her.
The way she leaves traces of blood on everything she touches.
(Oily fingerprints ruining the whitest of satin.)
How dirt and shards of glass are embedded beneath her nails, forcing her to hide them away..hoping he won't notice.
Her laugh is rarely audible, and when she blinks her tears make their escape.
Their grand exit.
She has no story, she's a work in progess.
An incomplete final masterpiece.
I'm holding my breath that one day I'll be able to tell you of him. Of them.
It's going to be a beautiful story.
He's made it that way.
&She's learning.