the perfect hours.

how can it be that hands fit so perfectly together? how natural it was to hold onto his,so much that she had even forgotten what it was like to have no hand to hold. they were the perfect hours; the moments where time stood still and all that existed was a you-and-i.

floating down a lazy river, sitting under a tall tree with her head pressed against his chest and his fingers tracing the crevices in her shoulder down to her elbow as if they were piano keys, and he the composure of a song she'd never heard before. a song inspired by her anatomy. 

she read about this kind of inspiration many times before, but never could imagine herself as a  muse. but it seemed that ever since she met him, she possessed an unspoken power to spark creativity. but it was he who made her a poet, a dancer- awakening so much in her that had been long asleep.

they really were the perfect hours, walking down the street not knowing when he'd reach out for her hand next. it was that motion she longed for most, waiting for the reassurance that he wanted her to belong to him, and the oddest thing for her was that she so wanted to be wanted by him. to belong to him, like a name.

she loved him. and that was the beginning and the end of it all.

                                                                                              love. it had finally arrived.  

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