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Description
If he is the elegant lines of a tattoo, flowing along the contours of a body in precise and certain harmony,
Then I am the ink stains of a stubborn pen, smudges of accident, climbing off the page and up fingers.

If he is the delicious burst of sunlight, falling from sky to skin in the form of inviting, caressing fingers which seep into your very bones, melting them,
Then I am the sudden summer downpour, erratic and disorganised, useful perhaps, but never wanted or enjoyed.

If he is a movement in classical music, cellos, violins and clarinets all weaving in and out of each other expertly, beautifully.
Then I would be the unknown song, full of wailing harmonies and lyrical metaphors, people may think it was "pretty" but it would never be "their thing".

We are a contrast, but not Jing Jang, not balanced or equal, he was merely... better. His cool eyes of bottle-green glass are more than I can bare.
Looking at them my thoughts shatter like a mirror at the mercy of gravity, and my own muddy gaze would fall to the floor.

He moves with a fluidity and grace I can only envy as my feet are caught in the grasping trap of my laces. He is a gentle stream, and I am the erratic, spontaneous, and inevitably troublesome dance of untamed fire.

And if he reads this, as I know he will, he'll tell me that this is all wrong and backwards. How he is, if anything, inferior, that I am overestimating him.

And then he'll tell me, in evocative ribbons of words, that ink stains are stories, because of the words they have smudged, and that nothing tastes quite like summer rain-drops caught on the tongue.

Then, somewhere between his soft pleading looks and persuasive words, I'll give in and nod, for fear of tainting the scene painted with his exquisite phrases with tangled, stumbling sentences of my own.

Description
If he is the elegant lines of a tattoo, flowing along the contours of a body in precise and certain harmony,
Then I am the ink stains of a stubborn pen, smudges of accident, climbing off the page and up fingers.

If he is the delicious burst of sunlight, falling from sky to skin in the form of inviting, caressing fingers which seep into your very bones, melting them,
Then I am the sudden summer downpour, erratic and disorganised, useful perhaps, but never wanted or enjoyed.

If he is a movement in classical music, cellos, violins and clarinets all weaving in and out of each other expertly, beautifully.
Then I would be the unknown song, full of wailing harmonies and lyrical metaphors, people may think it was "pretty" but it would never be "their thing".

We are a contrast, but not Jing Jang, not balanced or equal, he was merely... better. His cool eyes of bottle-green glass are more than I can bare.
Looking at them my thoughts shatter like a mirror at the mercy of gravity, and my own muddy gaze would fall to the floor.

He moves with a fluidity and grace I can only envy as my feet are caught in the grasping trap of my laces. He is a gentle stream, and I am the erratic, spontaneous, and inevitably troublesome dance of untamed fire.

And if he reads this, as I know he will, he'll tell me that this is all wrong and backwards. How he is, if anything, inferior, that I am overestimating him.

And then he'll tell me, in evocative ribbons of words, that ink stains are stories, because of the words they have smudged, and that nothing tastes quite like summer rain-drops caught on the tongue.

Then, somewhere between his soft pleading looks and persuasive words, I'll give in and nod, for fear of tainting the scene painted with his exquisite phrases with tangled, stumbling sentences of my own.