She exhales, the words coming slowly of out her mouth, twisting round her head in a cloud of idealistic fantasies and ideas made meaningful by her longing. They roll across my ears, tantalizing me with her passion, kissing me with butterfly touches, screaming so beautifully that my rebuttal dies against my teeth, my tongue stifling them with a surety I know I don’t possess. Her skin glows in the light and she looks like a fresh fallen snow, glistening with confidence and unmarred dreams.

She lays back and suddenly her form is exposed, long and lean, the silhouette of her body just visible against the backdrop behind her. Marble. She should be engraved in marble, like this, relaxed and calm and unafraid, one leg slung over the other in a gesture so human her perfection is greater. Flawed marble. Perfectly flawed.

“It’s true,” she says, and her lips stretch upward into a smile. She is not looking at me. She is watching her hopes run across the night sky like a silent feature, flickering faintly, eclipsing the stars in their breadth and strength.

She is a feast, and I am starving. I devour her, my lips aching to taste those butterfly touches, my hands twitching ever so slightly, seeking to hold her- all of her- in my greedy grasp. Her hair falls back from her face, lying around her so that she is bathing in a pool of her own vitality, and for a moment, I imagine her green. Green is fitting for her. She thrives with such unrelenting eagerness.

Her hand reaches up, soft and deft and smooth, and clasps my face. “Do you understand?” she asks, and I wish I could nod, could bring to her the joy she has given me, so that together we could stand and dance and move, our bodies our purpose, and our feet our rhythm. But I cannot speak, cannot move, and cannot lie. I don’t understand, and I cannot give to her what she seeks. I can only inhale the scent of her surety, fill my body with her sincerity, partake in her perfection.

She knows my silence, and her eyes turn to mine. I see no sadness, only conviction, and this time, she smiles for me. My hands loosen and my body sinks as I drown myself in that smile.

She stands, fluid and graceful, and the only hesitation I find is within myself. Her back turns, and her clothes, rumpled by her leisure, slip down to once again smother her. Her steps aren’t hurried, her steps aren’t slow. They are merely steps, destined to carry her wherever she wants to take them. Her hands fall into her pockets, and she tilts her head to the sky, regarding it as one would an old lover. She laughs, and the sound is full, echoing in the darkness, resounding over my mind like the crisp ring of a bell, and all I can see is her. And all I can do is breathe. She is the paper, and I am her ink.

Scotland.