I am only responsible for my own heart, you offered yours up for the smashing my darling. Only a fool would give out such a vital organ” ~ Anais Nin
She looked at him in that way that only she had, and it wrenched his heart a little more every time.
All the things that were broken about her, all the things that she tried to hide from him, were the things that he loved about her most.
She thought that he was looking for perfection and he was. Her perfection.
Her crooked little smile and the way her nose would wrinkle when she was truly displeased.
The way she was afraid of the dark and clung to him on midnight walks.
Her quick temper and even quicker slide into regret at having lost her composure. Her tangled web of secrets failed to drive him away.
He craved her passion for life and what she taught him about tenderness . He dreamt of her even when he was awake—her arms around his neck and the smell of her perfume left him simmering for her touch.
Every moment away from her light was the sweetest torture he ever hoped to endure. Even the pain of it was welcome; with her or without her he ached with an undeniable need to hold her once more.