Her whispered words in the darkness caressed the air like moths flying towards a light on a hot summer's eve, wings beating against humid air, mesmerized by a glow against a velvet world.
In ever facet of her life, she marveled at his ways, his movements, his voice and the way his heart beat beneath her fingertips, sure, steady and rhythmic, so full of life and passion; a carousel of joy.
His shoulders became the platform from which her lips propelled themselves over and over in sequence to the frenzied beating of her birdlike heart making music that could only escape from her when translated into touch.
The way his eyelashes graced his eyes reminiscent of the finest thread would weave upon her aching mind like weighted dreams wherewith she could never quite recover from the image she had seen.
There would never be another quite like him to ease into her world so perfectly and plant an everlasting garden of joy and wonder to spring upwards inside her soul.
For this, she loved him not knowing how her heart was ever granted such depth to contain such an emotion as the one overflowing from her in spiralling rivulets that surely he felt every time she smiled and said "I love you."
At night, the darkness is an anchor to keep one at bay in a bed of linen, like a prison, to contain ones grief, longing and need.
The air is the sorceress giving the power to continue while the edges of sanity unravel into tendrils of woe.
This is not love, but a breaking heart; not hope, but an ageless sorrow.
They do not prepare you for the weight of the pain that sinks down around you like a shadowed fist to steal away the life you once had known.
They do not prepare you for the way a heart breaks, slowly, in increments, then all at once.
Translate that feeling into sound and you'd go deaf.
Translate it into sight and you'd go blind.
If you could taste it, you'd never taste again.
The scent would leave you unable to breathe.
That is why the only way to understand it, is to feel it - inside.