He’s her poison, her kryptonite.

He knows it; she knows it. Hell, she’s known it forever. There’s some intoxicating and dangerous in his stare, something about his gaze that fascinated her. Maybe it was the eyes: one a startlingly clear blue like the ocean and the other a bright burning green. But there was always something unbearably intense in the way he looked at her. She fears it, loves it, and hates it all in the same time. It mashes up her emotions into that hateful strange clump of turmoil. Oh, how she hates it. But she yearns for it too.

She both hates it and loves it when he holds her gently, burying his face into her raven locks, breathing in her scent of plum blossoms, lemons, and burning roses. She says she smells like disaster but he simply whispers in her ear, that if she is disaster, she’s his downfall. She simply stays still in his arms and doesn’t say a word, because every bit of it is true. After all, just like he’s her poison; she’s his bane as well. She’s his beautiful disaster, a whirlwind of chaos, strife in living form.

She can see the silky strands of his silvery white hair and she desperately wants to run her hands through the locks and breathe deep in their scent of vanilla, clutching them to her lips. The distance closes so much she can make out the smooth texture of the black tattoos on his cheek and she traces it gently with her finger and he shudders under her touch.

“Be my wings,” she whispers into the night, her voice as quiet and wavery, as fragile as the flutter of a butterfly’s wing. He nuzzles her neck, sending small shivers down her back.

“Be my dreams,” he murmurs quietly, voice smooth like honey. She reaches up and lets her hand trail down his cheek, feeling the smooth contours of his face under her nimble fingers, letting his shallow breathing to be her vague melody.

Their lips suddenly join in a kiss, searing, passionate, and aggressive, tasting of thorny stars, whispery ashes, and forlorn wishes. They sink farther and farther down, drowning in each other, desperate memories and burning desire washing over them like an ocean tide. They’re drowning, farther and deeper, into their little abyss they have created, their small little sanctuary that is as easily shattered as their wishes and dreams.

Then as quickly and suddenly as they started, they break apart, uneven panting noses shattering the still night. He regards her with his feline eyes and she stares back with equal mixed emotion. Soon all they can hear is each other’s soft breathing, pulsing in rhythm, ebbing and flowing.

“Be my lover,” he rumbles softly, his sharp crystalline sapphire and emerald eyes locking with her liquid wine colored eyes. They both feel a tingly shock run up their spine at the intensity of each other’s stare and time freezes for an evanescent moment, like a click of a camera, capturing the moment forever in a picture.

“Be my foe,” she breathes, her voice low and dark, eyes darkening as well, shattering the moment and bringing them tumbling back to reality. Despite this, the same flaring passion still burns in their eyes and their hands hook together, clutching at each other with unsettling force, as if they were clutching and clinging desperately to life instead.

“Be my wishes.”

“Be my fears.”

“Be my light.” They’re inching closer, the distance slowly growing shorter once again. He brushes a stray strand of hair from her face, his gaze never leaving her eyes. Her eyes are still intent on his as well, as if hypnotized, mesmerized. “By my haven.”

“Be my darkness.” Once again, they meld together again, bodies pressed together, hungrily drinking each other’s essence. They tumble back into their refuge, their small piece of heaven. And once again, they break away, gasping for air, resurfacing back into the thorny reality.” “Be my hell.”

“Be my remedy.”

“Be my poison.”

Moonlight trembles as it twists through the broken glass of the window, shattering into silver pools on the couch, illuminating two tangled forms on the couch. The coffee and tea lie forgotten on the table next to them as he nips at her neck and she sighs like the wind under his fleeting touches. The fire crackles quietly as the dying embers spiral up to the chimney, the light making passing lighting throughout the plain room, flashes of color revealed among the shaded darkness; it illuminates small fragments of time among the hazy gray blur of the stream of life – the precious moments, the lonely, the desperate, and heartbreaking, and bittersweet.

They aren’t characters in a love story. They just happen to be characters with a love story. And so they go through the tempest of the fickle love, weaving tangled threads into stories, and stories into legends. And like all things, they fall. But unlike others, as they fall, they cling desperately to each other, to their humanity, to their life. And just sometimes love, even if it acts as a double-edged sword, is good enough.

“… Be my Kryptonite.”