Beauty

His face is one that belongs on statues umongst the ruines of forgotten worlds Chisled from marbal by fragments of will be myths. His eyes are not blue like the sea. They are the colour of the sparks of shine that come and go as ripples of moon light shimmer on the surface of the ocean at midnight and that radiant blue at the edges of green seen only in the northern lights. The color of magic, of power, of energy, of life, of the devine. Beauty so profound that it aches down to my soul. Pain almost to much to bare. I struggle to stay on my feet, remind myself to breath, struggle to hold onto my own existence and identity when, from deep within my heart and soul I want only to be lost forever in that gaze. To be desolved in that pool of magestic blue. To scatter into the vibrations of his being. How could I, always the addict, the obsessed, the mistress of repeate buttons, the super fan, tattooed in honnor of shows and books, unable to ever let go, how could I be expected to resist the exurutiating ecctisy of this destructive, entraping, bliss? I was caught by his first touch, I was doomed by the very first kiss.