Ah, they do play. They play like children. Like in the tiniest hints of whispers are great revelations revealed, and drowned within the sound of their own projections if shouted, so do the pinks flow, and the yellow, and the stamens of their words. Pollen, pollution, love? What was that? Love was the daisies creeping beneath her chin.

She laughed every time he dotted their centers.

"You know what you remind me of?" He smiled. And she, whimsical, cast her eyes to the door way, expecting someone to enter, waiting for them to enter, forbidding it, forbidding it all as they forbade them, the locks and bolts a whisper of protection (but never a shout. They did not wish to drown in that delusion). And the white, and the white, and the white; the room was white…

"No," the word was rippled in the sweet texture of mischievous bliss, like a young child raiding the cookie jar for his darling below. Another glance to the door. No footsteps. The sun was dipping toward the sky. Her chuckling continued as his brush dipped into his jars of painted potential -

"A humming bird…" the words caught the drift of a different sunset. He looked up. She looked up. Silence. Smiling. And the laughter spoke again so their words would not have to, his brush dotting a magenta speck on her nose, the color shining like a freckle. Masculine and feminine vocalizations of humor rolled together in on sweeping wave, like the weaving of satin, or the binding of a lifetime.

He had not needed to speak.

"And you," she continued, his beats matching her own, their smiles brilliantly adored by each other, one of blues, whites, and yellow, the other of pink, green, oranges and… "Remind me," he bit the inside of his lip in anticipation, watching her brush plunge into a tiny jar of paint – black; he found nothing dreary about the shade now, "Of crows."

And she made two swooping lines beneath his eye, each one bent in the middle. Mayhap this was not intentional. The laughter bursting from his throat had made her beloved sway, even as they both sat on the floor, the window looming above them as a portrait of nature. His fingers had long since been stained green, angling her face upward, surveying those features.

Perfection was a mask that never needed to be painted across her. He laughed at those verdant swathes across her chin, the garden strewn across her face, the morning glories dangling beneath each eyebrow, the humming bird on her nose, the daisies tucked just out of view, the garden that had become her face. The delicate roseate of her skin alerted him to the place below her eyes.

"Roses!" He laughed, and scribbled them across her countenance in a cheerful spiral, a cluster on either side.

"Why?" Laughed she. The brush strokes felt like fairies were bursting from their petal prisons, shedding their blankets and basking in the sun. Her hand reached for the yellow jar of paint, digits covered in blue and white.

"Because now," a grin. The clouds above his eyebrows were tipping, the ones below his lips stretching in an embrace of white; the sky was smiling. "You have rosy cheeks."

An eyeroll and a laugh were the sweetest things to ever bloom in that garden, conquering the rose, the daisies, the morning glories, and him.

He leaned closer as the sun drowned in its own pink paint – the cool texture of moisture on his forehead let his eyes snap open.

"Then you are a sun," carried on their laughter. A congealment of turquoise, of beauty, of scribbled clouds sat before her like a canvas, outlining his lips, highlighting his smile, invading the sunset's dismissal with the summonses of everything heavenward. Glorious in the night and day. The patch of yellow conquering his forehead wrinkled with her grin. "Because your smile," her turn for a nonsensical line that they would both laugh about, "—lights up everything."

No laughter.

No movements.

The pink light was fading from the horizon, melting into the earth, touching the soil, drowning in it, bleeding into the grass; and the earth opened her arms to the dying light as she lay there, sprawled as darkness crept nearer, both of their beauties eradicated so they could hope to belong entirely to one another, even if only in the dark. The earth and the sky drift far away, a unity never to be had. A horizon line offers only so much, a razor of romance, a sweep of barrenness, a forever unfulfilled sense of longing; oceans un-bathed in, feelings un-had.

They leaned closer, bathed in purple light, the universe marveling at the twist of fate, a forbidden marriage of nature's true wonders.

It was the first time the earth had ever kissed the sky.