Sad.
So sad.
He was always so sad, like a divine crisis; perfectly serene in his own misery, as if he were content to live life emotionally wrought. There was a proud, but gentle nature to him, and it was almost ironic, how intimidating he could be, beyond the fragility. Like a double helix of frosted glass; a piece of art posing with as much strength as such delicacy could offer.
Perfect.
He was so perfect.
It was a cosmically ironic feeling, he realized, as he stared down through the bars of the hangar loft, pale orange orbs searching the obscured frame of his mournful prize. For a man that only seemed to beget fear, what business did he have, to even entertain these pathetic thoughts of love, for which there was no requiem. To love was to desire love in return, and no falser a hope could he have ever harbored, as that to be loved. What kind of person might love him, he wondered, as he gaze flickered away from that whom he craved, to stare at his own hand, the digits contorted and curled in near unnatural hooks. He stretched his fingers, watching each one arch backwards like inhuman claws. Claws unfit to hold anything so delicate as that divine crisis; the helix of glass who basked in the bittersweet radiance that only true misery begot.
And yet, it was so tempting to reach out to him, that he almost wished he could, but alas, he had not the opportunity, so instead, he merely threaded limber limbs through cold steel bars, fingertips outstretched to him as if he were heaven. He wondered if, perhaps, he could long enough that what God there might be would take sympathy, and deliver him a taste of his affections. But such mercy was unbestowed, and as his outstretched arm fell limp, he felt a pang of sadness at the revelation that, beyond his grasp, in the shadows of the setting sun through the hangar gates, his beloved remained such in only the most unrequited ways, his form eclipsed by arms that he suspected deserved to hold such exquisite beauty even less than he himself did.
It was said that she were the sun to his moon; the joy to overthrow his sorrow. But what made her so deserving? When had she earned the right to stare into those eyes, pale like sun bleached expanses of raw sky? Was it really so fair that she held his heart on a string, when it was a heart so much better suited to the cradle of a silken web?
Her kisses were not so gentle, he thought suddenly, as he watched their embrace with a sad, contrived laugh, and wondered, as dusk overthrew his world and the woman who owned it, if, perhaps, his own might be a little softer.