Him

His hair was silk.

Like a million black horse hairs,

Bundled into waves like the sea.

Pale as ice,

Tiny brown stars coating his skin.

His delicate soft hands.

However his eyes,

Soft as the morning dew,

Vibrant as the grass,

Pale and piercing like a mirror.

That long stare.

The way the end of his nose pointed dew north,

His plump lips the color of a flushed cheeks,

Delicate as a rose,

As prickly and thrilling like thorns.

He smelled like a thousand rains,

The kind you sleep well in—

Sleep you almost find yourself ethereal in.

Tethered were we, his beauty entrancing me like sleeping beauty,

Even his feet like a princesses.

The way he pursed,

His gaze hardening once he laid eyes on me,

As if the sudden collision of two stars.

Venus.

Mars.

Fate as it knows has a way of spinning its web,

A black widow and her lover,

Caressed and devoured as the ultimate sign of love and passion.

I just wish I was as alive as he.

We were opposites in a way perfect.

My hardened inner clock chimed distinctly with his emotions,

That pure raw voice of his.

Like a harp playing its last tune,

Like a beautiful flower shining before ripped apart,

A glass forced to break.

My heart beat rapidly excelled,

The patterns forming an artwork,

A mural people gawked at.

But my temper, a beautiful expression we both exuded.

Except I hated mine,

Violent like a storm,

Contemporary like a sick beast.

His was feasible compared to mine,

Something I could fix.

We meshed like fish in a net.

My hair pixied and messy,

Yet polished and refined.

Tattoos created by my own hands,

An open book displayed to the public.

Eyes a golden brown,

Piercing and mocking as if blue.

Skin white also,

Though a vampiric ash that tried best to hide.

Freckled with leftover remnants scattered across the skin,

I was called a beauty,

And I despised it.

A snake always manages to catch its prey,

Even if its called a monster.

It knows.

I know.

He knows.

I do not remember his name nor his birthday,

I only stare as he melodically screams from across the stone floor.

I can see the red,

His skin flushed wonderfully,

As if touched with a paintbrush.

He screams as if ill let him go,

As if anyone will find him.

But all dogs that are wild find peace in being taken.

His smell.

Rich like a river spring,

Lush like damp cotton,

Memory of birds singing,

Fireflies glow.

His eyes may burn but I will extinguish that fire,

He and I both know.

Together.

He will realize soon that I am the bee,

And he is the delicate flower