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You
You were always more than the body you were in. Your soul was a brilliant black hole, all-consuming and unforgiving. No one else could be blamed for the destruction you caused because I willingly gave all of me to you.
Still
In every instance of this scene, the only constant was you.
Her
I can’t exactly explain what I feel, just looking at her makes my heart soar. It’s a curious feeling. I mean I understand the mechanics of the body and the chemicals produced whenever one sees the love of their life - heart races, pupils dilate, breaths hitch - but that warm, overwhelming emotion threatening to erupt from within me to cover every inch of her with my love and protectiveness is not logical, and absolutely not possible.
It’s the little things, I guess. The dark, slightly wavy hair framing her beauty; the brown eyes, expressive and questioning; the pouty lips, sensual yet dominant; the heart-shaped birthmark over her lip; the little hairs that attempt to give her a unibrow; the amused smirk that plays across her face; the mischievous glint in her eyes; the way she flips her hair to the right; the patterns her fingers trace across the back of my hand; the wide smile that reaches her eyes; the subtleness of her natural scent fused with her perfume.
I can’t deny it, it is magic in every sense. The new things about her that constantly surprises me in the best ways. The peacefulness of her resting features in the morning after I kiss her makes me want to keep her in bed all day for strictly PG-13 purposes: snuggling and cuddling. Then out of nowhere, that dominant streak appears and I’m taken again, even more so than before: the possessive glare in her eyes, the tightened grip around my waist, the heat from our bodies pressed flush against each other’s.
I love her, there is no other way to say it. It’s simple and straightforward. She is a gorgeous being, inside and out and as close to perfection as can be. Her heart is big and forgiving, each artery filled to the brim with love for all life. Her mind works in intricate systems, analysing situations and coming up with back-up plans to her back-up plans, questioning with insatiable curiosity. Her brand of humour is not typical, and neither do I want it to be.
I want to be selfish. I want to have her and her alone. Part of me doesn’t want to share her with the world for she is the one ring to my Gollum, the Death Star to my Vader, the TARDIS to my Doctor. But to hide such a heady combination of beauty and brilliance is a crime.
Her willingness to support and engage me, challenge and fight me, love and take care of me is intrinsic altruism because that is who she is, beautiful in every possible way. There is no greater testament of woman anywhere, she is the epitome - proud, strong, and fierce and boy, am I proud to be hers.
Fear
The thoughts before your eyes close, as you lay supine on your bed, are conflicting at best, frightening at worst. The foreboding thought looms at the helm of your mind, as you anxiously worry a lip or a nail. Sleep does not claim you, simply because it has no right. You are forced to march the thrum of your thoughts and the fear that perpetuates you, flowing deep and freely. You are forced to pay attention to the voids of silence created and the thousand scenes you've created in your mind. You are forced to agree with the twisted diagnoses you've convinced yourself is the truth. But like your sexuality, you are more than that, more than your diagnosis.
Or at least, try, try to believe that. Because false hope is like paper that has already caught fire, there will always be the charred evidence of a life not lived and a path not taken.
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