Her voice rang out to him like a melody. It grabbed him and willingly bent him to her will. Her voice of silk was made up of violins and cellos and piano. Her whispers were the silence before the orchestra plays. Her laugh was the applause and acceptance of the all too eager audience. That girl was made of strings and brass.
Her eyes were the concentration and persistence of the musicians pulling the strings. Her hands were the worn out stage, plagued but experienced. Hands that once started out new and glossy had become worn and calloused by the many people they had come across in her short lifetime. Her tongue was the door, that opened up a new world to the innocent on looker. Her mind, the maestro.
I danced after her eagerly, heart beating at every turn of her head, every tear shed, every time she pulled her jacket a little tighter over her body. I was completely hers. My soul no longer belonged to myself. Instead, she had taken it from me with her calloused hands and sparkling fingertips. I had given myself to her so easily that I no longer cared that I had nothing left for myself.
"My heart's racing," I mumbled to her breathlessly. We danced through the streets no longer knowing where we were going, if we were going anywhere at all.
"I'm on fire!" She cried out hysterically. Her grey eyes met mine and for the briefest of moments I knew that I had a direct line to God himself.
Grey eyes like redemption. Grey like all of the missing pieces of my life. Grey like the space between the beginning and the end. Grey like the questions and the wonderings of all who are lost. Grey like the uncertainty of the future and the compromises of the past. Grey like the love for myself I forgot to have.
"Let me put you out," I told her.
