12.08am
I have always been a hurricane. He has always been the eye. I have always been the wild, whipping wind that lifts the golden locks of the pretty girl on the beach. He has always been the summer breeze, lilting through the blooms, kissing the flowering raindrops. I have always been a cataclysm, the master of my own catastrophe. He has always been a dove of peace, the creator of his own silent strength. I was the calico, bright and mismatched, a maypole of twisted ribbons and strings, stitched together in a clashing cacophony. He was the map, mathematically precise and coloured in all the lines, and no matter what I could find my way back to reality when I was with him. It was an unlikely pairing, an apprehensive coupling. But no one saw behind the closed doors, no prying glances could intrude on the way his silvery eyes stared deeply into mine, how his tender butterfly-kisses sent tremors down my every vertebrate. I suppose that's why I couldn't see the canyon-cracks that lay under the surface from the start, couldn't see the broken debris falling and running down our sides from cracks that could never be filled with the likes of each other.
YOU ARE READING
En Air
Romansa'I don't believe in magic,' said the young boy. The old man smiled. 'You will when you meet her.'
