She breathed like that of an angel. Corny, I know. But the way she exhaled was so soft. The sound, it was ridiculously comforting. Supple. There’s really no other way to explain it. Think of how crazy that is to say? *I love the way she breathes* but it’s true, laughably so.

Most notably though, there was also darkness within her. Wickedness. She was like a pricker bush with berries. So so sweet, almost sickening, the sugar high. But if you don’t pay attention, or carelessly bat away the branches, you’ll feel the sharp pangs.

She’s prickly. Hell some days, there’s no berries at all. They’re out of season.

But I love both sides. You cannot receive the fruit, without dealing tenderly with the thorns. And, I suppose, same with me. We fit together fluidly. She handles me with delicious passion and I ravage her with my tones of soul. We are threaded together, woven symbolically as one. I am her chaotic euphoria and she is my twisted pleasure. We’re both fucked up, she gets it. We are the beacon to each other’s endless, and provoking tempests.