She had a messy mind and a patterned past but that was alright; it meant there were stories he could pull from her soul and streak against his empty pages. She would whisper in his ears all her worries and woes, and his fingertips would collide with typewriter keys in a haste to share with the world her tales. Not a single word went unwritten, and for that she was grateful. For with ever phrase of dialogue and demeanor he pulled from her veins, she was something less of a storyteller and made more into a muse. And she didn't mind this at all, for she knew she'd fade either way.
At least with her words across his page, she'd be solidified for all time. She would be renewed, each time she was read, and would never fade too far from the mind. She smiled sadly, thinking this, dipped down from behind his shoulder to give him a kiss, but her lips never met the stubbled skin of his cheek. With one last line, she whispered her goodbyes to the shadows, and became a mist the way only a muse could; always there, never seen, occasionally heard.
His fingertips kept the beat on their own accord, spinning the story of a girl no one knew. But somehow, he loved her. His heart swelled at the thought of her. A tickle toyed against his left cheek, and he brushed a few fingertips over his skin, imaging a pair of rosy lips there instead of empty air.
He heard a whisper stolen by the wind, pulled the words from the atmosphere and continued writing of a girl he never knew.
"I lived only for you."
© 2013 | Jazelle Handoush
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