There was this beautiful violence in his eyes.
He would pitch his love toward things; things. Never people, I do not think he had it in him to love people. I do not think many truly have it in them to love people.
She was an exception to this rule, of course.
This is what made them similar, made them the same; their untamed, unconstrained ability to love. To love with intensity. To love without a watch.
She was virginal in existence, completely without the cool of tragedy. She had no edges, was gentle all around. This was a fluidity that extended to her everything. She moved with the motion of water, her body a perfect assembly of waves and curves, rolling uninterrupted across her bones. They licked over her hips, her thighs, the backs of her knees, over her the soles of her feet and palms of her hands; these waves. If possible though, the artistry of this body was eclipsed by the profound delicacy of the arch of her back.
She was fluid in the way her conscious would crash into the moment, only to be dragged back to the vastness of her mind. In the way she could sit, still as a lake. Its surface peppered only by fish surfacing or pond-skaters, Gerridae, stood in rows, unable or unwilling to pierce the sheet of water. This he also could do.
He, he was an anthology of convolution. He was not angles, not lines, not fractures, just nothing smooth.
He was the cloth used by an artist to clean paintbrushes.