and so she said

what could be better?

oh dear me, what could be better than seeing him across the way, and knowing, really knowing that the glint in his eyes wasn't the sunlight reflected at just the right angle? how rewarding was it to know that the strength in his grip was a whispered promise of 'I won't let go' and not simply the primal need to feel?

how wonderful to see pictures in every stroke, every brush of his fingers as they trailed along goosepimpled skin and barely touched; but that's the trick, isn't it? because he is touching you, and he's touching you, ghosting shivers with light butterfly kisses, mere nothings, but with the gravity of every weight you've ever felt.

as constricting as the walls are, you laugh and sputter wildly, climbing up with no footholds, just to reach the ceiling and get to him.

and how absolutely lovely he is when he asks softly, with an elegant-handed gesture, if this was okay. there's no room for fragility or hesitation or the perception that you are breakable now, because there is a heat spreading from your stomach to slither and strangle your neck, reddening your cheeks and ears in a pounding intensity.

though you know it's not nearly warm enough without him.

the distant skies, swirling in muted colors of dark grey and blue, seem to speak to you, as if to say ' it could rain today, but it won't, because there's two' (colors)

two, you had been told, was always the magic number.

his toes uncurl and flex slowly, and how astonishing that he is patient, that he is unhurried, content with nothing more than to speak, always without saying anything, lulling melodies of: you, only you. only you.

pale green twirled with even paler blue, lined in stark contrast with the prettiest variation of charcoal black you've ever seen. irises that don't mesmerize or trick, but always stay still and tell the most endearing stories.

and you kow, you really know that there is nothing but his lazy toes and his rising chest, the amused, quiet tilt of his lips, their color faded like a bruised apple.

you'd always loved apples. and bruises equally, because you'd always been so clumsy (defeatable). he was the same, and he wore his bruises (defeats) openly and proudly, especially if you couldn't hide yours.

though you always got the sense that his bruises weren't always accidents, and the gesture was even more palpable, that you had someone who would intentionally stub his toe and bump his leg and bang his arm, all to protect you, or sometimes, to make you feel better.

becaus he was better, better in a lot of ways, but then again, so were you.

in the long moments of time, in the achingly slow progress forward, how marvelous was it to know that the anticipation you felt was returned? (you could tell by the way his toe flexing becomes erratic). how utterly remarkable was it to see the way the heat radiated off of him, too? vibrant color dusting pale cheeks.

mostly, it was the burning, steady reciprocation in those eyes of his, telling you everything you'd ever needed to hear, some things you didn't want to hear, along with those you did.

so what a perfectly destructive hurricane you found yourself in, standing in the center where the winds didn't touch you and it was calm and quiet, with the energy buzzing powerfully but distantly. his eyes were the only thing, the only thing that you could focus on.

pale green and even paler blue, glinting, sparking, igniting, and still so controlled and sound.

--

and so she said, "Now."

she pulled him into the violent storm and he held on tight as the wind swept them easily away, and she laughed breathlessly.

oh, what could be better?