Her & Him

Writing diary extract. Circa summer 2022. Exact words.

She... she was water. Fluid, transparent, or a calm surface upon which freckles of rainbows shimmered, that you'd watch, mesmerized with a peaceful joy cooling your mind.

With cracked lips you'd bring her pale hand to kiss, indulging in her cool refreshing smile, you'd drink her floating laughter and dripping whispers until she slips from your fingers - and you are left parched.

She'd melt into your arms, with the voice of a cool stream in your neck. She could be your summer pool to cradle your fall, wrap you away from air with a womb-like deafness, momentary apesenteur.

She would be the calm pond that blinks up at you through shy reed-lashes during a walk. Smoothed from wrinkles, she'd let you peer at yourself through her, see all your beauty and fragile soul, wavering with light and life.

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He was the sculptor. He shaped others, took their bodies of clay, pinched smiles into their cheeks. He sifted through diamonds and glittering minerals to finally get to the raw stuff. He'd cradle a stone and hold it up to the sun, just to see the glints of obsedian within.

All the elements would pour into his atelier; they were drawn to him. Patiently lined up, the dew, the stool, the blaze, the clay spun and sunk, flattened and grew, yielding to his hands.

Palms singed by fire and hardened by ice, they were gentle with fine parts. The world played into his hands, smoothed and gorgeous when everyone came out.

His art was raw and alive, roamed the streets with the stars in their eyes. None were perfect, but they were beautiful. He set them free, dug deep, right until ugly stones and bits of dirt fell like teeth, and created something simple, wonderful out of it.

Some, he'd keep hidden for himself, on a special shelf in his heart where the sunglight could catch every perfect curve.