A/N: Drabble. Literati.
Disclaimer: Don't own nothin'.
He watched her, always. When she walked, he watched her movement, the way she would swing her arms, her muscles tensing and un-tensing, back and forth, side to side, a soft lullaby that could never set him to sleep.
He wished he could reach out and take that hand on that arm, that he could hold it in his own and never let it go. That he could be her lullaby, because he knew that he could try, at the very least. And if he couldn't, if he couldn't become hers, all for one and all consuming, then he would keep her close and warm and happy, even if he wasn't as such.
He didn't feel guilty for watching her like he did. He felt a sense of possession; that he would—could—own her, although she could—would—never be owned. Or maybe not as an object, as a possession, because she was too incredible and too independent to belong to one person, especially not one person like him.
But maybe they could learn to belong to each other, a sweet see-saw that brought each other together and apart, but always on the same ride. They would fight, he knew, because there was no way that they, as anyone, could be complete. But what people never realize is that fighting is not always from frustration. There are some that fight because of anger, and there are some that fight because of passion. Because when so much love and hate comes together and is shared by two people, it can not be easily contained. So yes, they would fight, and they would yell and hit and run and fly and love and live and let go. But they would never forget.
Because when there is something as passionate as the way they were—are, would be, whatever tense it's in—he could never, would never quite keep track, the fights would not consume them. They would, themselves, together, be always, even when it was no more.
He wished he could reach out and take her by the waist, and have her against him, the heat and the anger, because that was what part of it was, he knew, and he wished that he could show her the sadness that was inside that he never let out. Once he would, or did, he wouldn't, couldn't keep it in anymore. And he wouldn't give that to her. She didn't deserve that. She deserved much better.
She deserved the best; the sun, the moon, the stars—the universe, the planets, the grass. She deserved the clouds and the books and the words and the colors and the life that was everywhere around them. She deserved the world that he couldn't give her, and the love that he could—but it didn't matter because she wouldn't give it back.
He watched her as she went to him, the guy that could give her the world, and everything that she deserved, except for the love that she needed to have from no one else but himself. In the end, though, all the other stuff that he, himself, couldn't obtain, and he, that guy, her guy, could, meant more and made more than the love that filled her senses with fire and ice, air and water, hate and frustration—every emotion that made her shiver and freeze and the ones that she didn't know existed.
That love was no more, though. Because it could only survive when both wanted it, and she had everything but that, so it was gone. And now, she had everything, but didn't care, because she missed what she could no longer obtain. And he had nothing, but was happy, because she had everything that he wanted to give.
It was so many thoughts, but now their book was over. Because—eventually—everything had to end. Even the things that had never begun.