“I could start fires with what I feel for you.”
He didn’t think he loved her at first; he just thought he liked her face.
A pretty face isn’t that hard to find, he thought, but hers wasn’t simply pretty.
It wasn’t just a pointy nose and wide eyes, but a heavenly sculpted bump and two galaxy-like orbs.
Her face was radiant, and tender, and disrupting, and he liked to observe her.
He loved to see her eyes shine under the sun, and her brown hair get caught on fire while standing outdoors on midday.
At first he thought he just wanted to draw her.
The artist that beats inside of me- he said to himself, half unconvinced- can’t stand the thought of not preserving the looks of such beauty.
He thought he simply wanted to paint her.
The dark shade of her eyes challenges me to remake their deepness, he said.
Her feather-like face dares me to match the looks of her tender skin.
And god did he tried.
He struggled to find the exact shade of her lips, and couldn´t quite match the darkness of her eyes; her hair was always a shade darker, and her cheeks weren’t as tender.
Suddenly, he found himself struggling to find the way to paint her loud laugh, and her raspy voice.
He wanted to express her love for wolfs, and couldn’t find the color to say she wasn’t like anything he had ever seen before.
He couldn’t stop himself from admiring her, and tried to think that he was trying to study her factions.
He couldn’t stop himself from thinking about her, and tried to think that he simply was obsessed with art.
But then she kissed him and he felt how his insides were set on fire.
And he kissed her until his insides were melted, and turned to liquid soul, running through his arms and chest and lips.
He could feel his dripping heart on the verge of exploding, and his trembling hands trying to find their way to the edge of her torso.
And he felt an addicting scent radiating from her mouth, like oleo paintings or wasted watercolors, and her waist felt like the tender hair of his Loew Cornell brushes, and her existence felt like love.