There was something about her. Dark mysterious eyes, her fluid white skin, or the way she played with her hair. His demons that used to be balanced with angels were now rebelling, threatening to break lose. They wanted her. He wanted her. Playing with the leather cuff he walked towards her. Allured. Giving in. Tipping the scale.
He loved her without desperation and needs and wants. With his naked soul, he loved her, and dreamt of her clothed in white dancing beneath the moonlight as the stars grew jealous of the way she moved.
Her eyes carried a certain kind of silence that begged to be understood and he felt as if he was a scientist, staring with eager, feverant eyes into galaxies that have not yet had the chance to be named.
It was rather beautiful: the way he put her insecurities to sleep. The way he dove into her eyes and starved all the fears and tasted all the dreams she kept coiled beneath her bones.
He loved her, not for the way she danced with his angels, But for the way the sound of her name could silence his demons.
He stood alone beneath the stars and shouted to the heavens at the top of his lungs and gazed at the stars that shined beautifully when the sky swallowed her name.
*A story based on the poems of Christopher Poindexter