A/N: More random prose, because that's how I deal with stuff. This actually is about someone real, but the last three paragraphs are purely imagination. Enjoy...

People think I'm strange for seeing things that they don't see or hearing things that they don't hear. I love the way people look when they wear something the exact shade of their eyes. It's like their eyes and their clothes lock into each other and start to resonate, building off of each other's chromatic energy, their pulsating hues pouring over their whole bodies until they seem to glow with a brilliance driven from within but fueled from without.

People also think I'm strange because I often fail to see darkness in the world. I think of everything in terms of music. And I think music is beautiful. Like I think he's beautiful. It's not just when he wears that shirt that's the exact same shade of green as his eyes. And it's not just when he talks about some esoteric fragment of knowledge that we share, and quietly revel in sharing, as we lie on the floor wrapped in satiny duvets pulled from our beds. I try to put my finger on what it is, laughing as he pulls his comforter tighter around him and curls up into a ball next to me.

Part of it's the way he understands me. The way I give him a look, and he knows how my day was. Or the way I say two words, and he knows everything she said to me. Or the way I walk straight into my room, turn off the lights, close the door, and fall lifelessly onto my unmade bed, and he knows exactly how long to wait before quietly opening the door and coming to sit beside me, waiting for me to smile at him for making everything better instantly with his presence. Because that's exactly what he does. He sucks the arid and dolorous dissonances from my consciousness and brings me back to life without saying a word.

Part of it's the way he and I tune to each other when we're together. We're never out of sync, we're never out of phase. That's not to say we always agree, but we don't have to. We know exactly where to touch each other to elicit the perfect response. It's kind of like finding harmonics on a violin. Anyone can learn where to touch the string, but it takes time and practice and a mutual understanding so deep it becomes a part of your soul to know how to bow the string and how to hold the instrument and how to move your hands in order to make the note speak. Maybe it's because you're only asking for part of a note. You're asking for the higher nuances, the parts your ear doesn't usually get to hear. But a skilled hand can isolate the higher frequencies, grasping only those desired and making them transparent.

I guess part of it's the way we fight, too. We function like a masterfully crafted symphony, complete with concords and dissonances, climaxes and resolutions. A dazzling interplay of call and response, swelling and receding as notes dance from here to there and back again. You don't like everything about it; parts of it are mundane, yes. There are sections that make you wonder what was going through the composer's head, phrases that grate against your consciousness. But then come those times when you feel it's disassembling you, reaching into your core in a breathtaking tutti and leaving you trembling in awe as you wonder how you could ever have lived without experiencing something like this.

But every instrument in the world couldn't create such a thrilling, all-consuming mass of pure human power like that which overtakes me when we kiss. I challenge Stravinsky to pound out the beating of our twin hearts, pulsing against each other in intricate compound rhythms, or Ravel to paint in sound the colors that flash before my closed eyes, or Tchaikovsky to evoke the emotions washing across the electrified matrix of my mind. And then I open my eyes, and I see him, and he smiles. I stare wordlessly at those lips that drove all thought but those of him from my mind only fractions of a beat of my heart ago. I don't know what to say. Any sound would shatter the perfect harmonies that his love has created around me, around us.

And then I realize it. That's what it is. It's love. That's what Bach wrote into every interlocking melody of every winding fugue and canon. That's what was so mystical about Scriabin's famous chord. That's what I feel every time he looks at me.

I guess it's not so strange after all.