His lips.
That was one of the first things you noticed about him when you first saw him.
They were full and plump and beautiful, just slightly chapped. It took every ounce of willpower you had not to kiss those lips raw.
You loved it when he smiled, his lips turning up at the edges.
And when he laughed, the way it pulled his lips back, it was gorgeous.
The way his teeth would worry away at them, a sure tell sign that he was nervous.
All of it made you just want to kiss his breath away.
Which was funny, because breath was his aspect.
And yours was rage. But when you looked at him, it was as if you never knew anger.
He made you high, his laugher and the sound of his voice. And his lips.
You didn't need sopor when you were around him, you were floating.
It had taken you sweeps to build up the courage to ask him if he wanted to make out.
And he had most hurriedly declined.
But that was okay.
You placed it off as a side affect of the sopor and things went back to normal between you two. You got to hang out all day with him, and you could look at his lips while he spoke.
The way they moved as he talked, the way his tongue would dart out over them every so often, it was glorious.
It had taken you years to get to this moment, where you had this opportunity to kiss him, to kiss him so deeply it left his head spinning. To kiss away all his fears, to make him love you the way you loved him. It had taken you so long to get him right where you wanted him, to convince him that you were meant for each other.
To bad he loved someone else. To bad she killed him.
Now all you have is the head of the boy you love, sitting in your lap, while your tongue darts out to lick at the brown on your lips.
To bad this is all you'll ever have of him. To bad you were too late.