Disclaimer: I own nothing. But you knew that already.
Field notes: Lifted from one of my ancient rp accounts on xanga. As you've probably predicted, no one ever visits it anymore.
She remembers, albeit vaguely and above most other things, the hardened curves where the valley of his opposing shoulders converged to form his swooping elegant neck. All other details seemed completely washed out with age. The image of him in her mind was now layered in gossamer, caked with dust.
As a naïve little girl, she could recall an unnerving need to drape her arms around his neck, feel the sinews and tendrils beneath his skin along the apple of her cheek. But at that age, who hadn't expressed this desire so strongly already?
Her motives, however, were a far cry from most of the other avid females. This, she soon discovered with age. She outgrew her somewhat childish whims as time endured, but in his midst, her disconcerting itch had become more pronounced. She wanted to skate the delicate skin stretched taut over his coronary artery, search for his seams or any imperfections in the final product; there could be no conceivable way a divine creature with the noble neck of a wise crane could be simply borne by a regular human being. However, her tumultuous pursuits turned up fruitless.
And he had left just as he had lived: quietly and without a word.
Even now, many years after his thirst for vengeance consumed him, driven him from one extreme to another, she could still feel her fingers tracing his silhouette. Her lips would graze the structured back of his memory, reading every bump and crease like so much Braille. Her fingertips would gingerly - boldly - dance over the subtly protruding knobs of his spine at the base of his neck.
Yet, the firm and elegant neck she had once longed for in her youth no longer bore its charm. At first she could not fathom why. The thought drove her halfway insane. But she indulged herself in secret. Of course she knew why he could no longer hold her attention, why she allowed herself to forget about his perfections.
She gave a sigh, regretting the one blemish that she had ever allowed him: the image of him in her mind bore that inky black stain smudged across the porcelain skin at the base of his once elegant swooping neck like three ebony commas embedded in a sea of ivory.