She stares at me.

My blonde, almost snow-white hair.

My pale, blank, scrawny skin.

My blue eyes,

sharp and clear as ice

but warm and soothing as coffee.

My heart beats a mile a minute

as I stare at her.

Her gorgeous, fiery red, curly hair.

Her tanned, freckly face,

those hazel eyes that sparkle

in the moon.

Her beautiful, strong arms

that envelop me in a hug.

Two people,

chaotically peaceful,

complicatedly simple,

separate, but together.

Broken, yet whole.

We are a part of each other,

we hold each other's hearts,

we steal one another's souls.

Is it foolish to believe in love?

Just as it is to know

that magic

is real.

And she is.

Both magical, and real.

This feels like a memory.

A dream.

But alas, it is not.

Her warm breath on my neck.

Her short nails holding me.

Her scent of honey, rose, and home.

This is real.

All of this.

Is real.

This is my life,

my world.

I can hear her soft, sweet whispers,

can feel her curls tickling my cheek,

can see her loving, smiling eyes staring into mine,

can smell her scent, like sugar, but not too sweet,

can taste her raspberry lipstick still lingering on my lips.

Oh, how is this real?

How can I be so enchanted,

under a spell,

glued in place,

mesmerized.

Knowing this is all true

but feeling like a dream.

Such imperfect perfection,

such painful bliss,

so scared of happiness

but

never

letting

go.

There is no logic, no sense to how I feel,

defying my truth.

How do I feel?

What is this ball of

nervousness

happiness

screaming

sighing

laughs

tears

inside the pit of my stomach?

This most beautifully flawed woman,

in front of me,

so real,

all real.

This soft love, this is love.

Love, I think.