She is perfection translated into modern art; the way her words roll off of his tongue like honey. They come out ever so sweet, it stings. They hang in the air, heavy with fervor, heavy with the threat of sinking into my pores, infectious with the sensation of addiction.

She is a living, breathing, walking painter trapped in her own masterpiece; skin caged in her swift strokes; heart embedded in her rigid corners. She is so full of the space she no longer occupies and they gaze, unaware of the time ticking nebulae in her lungs, signifying the start of the Big Bang.

It happens every so briskly, swallowing up undefined space until that's all she becomes and you're sucked into her presence, into a vacuum where's she's etched herself into every corner.

They call it love, but you fail to come up with a word that fits her soul into your veins.

Out comes the bang, and you have to remind yourself to scrape the stardust off of your bones but they settle back into the crevices, tugging into a sense of yearning, a sense of belonging.

I have never been quite the expert enchantress but there's something strikingly enthralling about her aura, like a thousand marmalade suns nestles into it the cradling waves of her charm.

She is a living, breathing walking painter, a spectrum against the monochrome world.