Buttery and the shade of melted umber, she shines like burnished stone. I could look for hours and not see a sliver, barely a fractional vista caught in the horizon’s shimmer. Sharp in the way of absent notes in a felonious composition, her cadences carry a piano’s punctuation. I could listen for hours and not catch a word, simply drift upon a lilting cloud of consciousness. Marshmallows soaked in cocoa, her eyes are diaphanous chocolate portals flecked with gold. I could drown in their depths and be forever quenched. Boundless and scaled to suit, her love is tailor made.
I feel so fucking crazy that I worry it seeps out of my skin. People stare at me a lot, I think, or glance into my vicinity with a specific casualness that feels broadsword worse by way of bamboo splintering, and I worry that my insanity is showing. Did I wipe it off? Tuck it in? Brick it up? Excrete a social sin? But really, I know nobody is looking. If they ever do, it’ll be from an angle I forgot to vet, because the quantum law of averages is buttered side down and I always end up toast.