Kendaleigha

She is not made up of light - no - she can't imagine being so bright, so full of constellation and dream and air.

Instead:

She is shadow and midnight pond reflections. She is the soggy crunch of leafs that have layered again and again until people have forgotten that the earth was ever an oceans of summer green. She is the moment of peace right before the storm that washes everything away, but only because it blurs so deeply into the storm itself. There's no doubt that she's the storm, the eye, the wind and gush and exhale exhale exhale.

She is not light. She cannot be.

That is not the nature that embroiders itself into her flesh, that leaks out her eyes, that spices the breathe as it whispers away from her lips.

Yet:

There are moments when she hesitates, when her pause is a stumble to her climax instead of its natural, surging climb. When her heart wonders what if. What if. What if she could be that girl wrapped in his arms, or that girl gripped beneath his body, or that girl tasting chocolate desert lingering on his lips, or that girl yelling his name in a way she would never speak outside of that moment in that bed. That girl who experiences, who is, sunrise and gentle spring rain and summer love and breathless euphoria and the taste of honey and dances that sing.

What if.

When she sees the couple with love in their faces and sleep hanging from their limbs, she almost wishes. Almost.

Instead:

Their light is bright, prickling her skin, blowing her hair into a mess, a nest, a tangle of wish and sour and no.

When she moves to them, when she melts into their skin - temporarily, always temporarily - when she fills them like wine glasses, she tastes it all. It makes every bit of her, atoms-soul-chord, shiver. Hard rolling bursts that go on and on, a rush of tide. The light, the love, the life, tastes so good. Temporarily, always temporarily.

When she reforms, awakens, her thighs are wet, the warmth between her legs still clinching, her breath still skipping and tumbling.

Later, the couple will awaken too. Perhaps they'll remember each other and their love, their sweet love. There's always that maybe. Probably though, if she's honest, they will hurry away from each other, not recognizing blue eyes and brown, afraid they've soiled themselves with a fling, with a stranger, with a night that's foggy and faded and nothing worth remembering.

She'll be that hurricane that has made it to land and eaten all the good places.

She is not light. She cannot be.