He remembered she had scars. Some on the outside. Who knows what lay inside. She was plentiful in her beauty, her unique asides. Her particulars. A laugh. A gaze. A pitch in a word. An accent. A drawl.
She had been in full sail. Head winds. Hurricanes aloft. Sun storms. Violent collisions of atmospheric conditions that had yielded the downpours. He recalled a moment in a rain. Silver colors, grays. Wet clinging clothes but mostly the temperature of her mouth.
She put on small make up. She applied. She smelled of lotions and potions. She wore a small fragrance as dizzying as pulling her into you to kiss beside the ear where the hairline met her face. An angle. A spot. Where nobody else on the planet knew existed but you and if you just gently placed your lips there she might soften. She might sigh. She might align into you. Feline like. A purr.
She invaded days and fevered nights. She was a glimpse and a peripheral. Out of the corner of your eye. Out of sight her ghost remained. You could sense her. You could smell her. Almost taste. Almost.
She was radiation. She burned hot cold. A carbon half life of a billion years. A star that died but still sparkled light years away.
He remembered a time on the roof of a building. Pointing. Tracing. Remembered the gold before the purple of dusk. And her hair across her eyes, lines. Latitudes across the perfect geography. Her blink slow and deliberate. Her mouth in a pirate smile. Her eyes the color of caramel and darkening further in the evening. Blackening. Contrasts against the kaleidoscope behind her.
She melted against him. Butter on toast. She filled the crannies of him in soft yellow tones, sweet salty flavors. Tastes he might have never known.
He wondered what she did when the door shut. When she closed it and was alone. When the pale colors of the room looked chalky, skeletal. When the colors were washed and worn. She had been such a bright color. Jazz music. Motown in an elegant elevator. What colored her rooms now? What played in her mind as the tile floors stared back? As the mirror left nothing said.
He had loved coming behind her and engulfing her with his arms. His wrapping. Enveloping. His breath alongside her hairline. Like an evening with day hurrying away to let a night descend upon it with fireflies and cicada songs and a star or two.
She had crept in with doubt, wondered at beauty. Only to have him push away like a towel on a fogged mirror her true image, softened and exquisite. Her eyes only now seeing what he saw. Her visage now being what he had made. Her truth, if only between them, of what they had made.
Her stark and unceasing beauty as if he alone had painted her from a picture made from a memory.
Which is why, as he slugged down the methadone, he tried so fucking hard to erase the stone-carved memory of what she had imprinted...had so clearly etched ...and so divinely scarred into his depth that he had realized now was the only viable way to cure his addiction.
Imagining his ashes being stirred by a long stick that she held in her graceful fingers. The gray of what had once been a color and that color had once been what she had called him.
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