Should I have looked the other way, perhaps my eyes would not have mistaken her for what surely is an angel. It could only have been the sun in place of any cheap mimicry that complimented her sublime, porcelain skin that made her look like she was made of snowy gold. I longed to feel my fingers run through her hair as I combed her bangs back and to unveil her face from the lenses that I feared were the only medium preventing her eyes from turning me to stone, and if not, I would crumble the instant her fingers tried to touch me. It was a curse, the burden of knowledge I withheld for I knew that her molecules and my molecules possessed too many of the same current that could only result in one terrible truth: I could never truly feel her essence in the grasp of my embrace, nor could I caress her strands of softened, sugared copper in the presence of repelling atoms. I could search but one million miles beneath the darkness of the still blue sea and never capture the color of her eyes. And so it seemed not one picasso nor twelve Da vincis could replicate the mirror she would doze into every time the morning would rise only to offer itself to none else than her. No, it wasn't a meet cute, but it was definitely ... something... something I couldn't explain, but I knew that this person was holding my hand in the midst of our creation down to the bone; I knew for a fact that I was trembling but I would be never be sure if it was because I was afraid of the creator or because she held my hand. She made me come alive.
