How I wish you could see the potential, the potential of you and me. It's like a book elegantly bound, but in a language that you can't read...just yet.
- (I Will Possess Your Heart by DCFC)
Everly Maple is certainly a sight to behold.
I am admiring her, at this moment. There is no better opportunity to observe a person than when they are in their element; when they are absorbed by passion, concentration...love, for what they are doing.
She is searching, discovering, creating.
Notes filled with her delicate cursive are scattered over her desk. A thick, worn book is laid open before her; she is bent over it so that her hair spills over her shoulders and tickles the pages of the book.
She is entranced by its words, oblivious to anything outside the realm of its yellowed pages...like I am entranced by her.
It is little wonder that I find myself drawn to her innocent beauty. I have grown tired of the same company; those who possess little substance and an excess of vanity - those who move as though they own the world, as though they are at the centre of it.
Her movement is enchanting to me. Her movements are timid, tentative, but graceful. She holds herself with humbleness that, in anyone else, I would interpret as weakness. She is so different to what I know and -
She is writing now. Her quill flickers back and forth as it glides along the already half-filled parchment at a swift pace. She has pulled her hair behind her ear and now I can see her face properly.
She is an artist's dream.
Her features are angelic and delicate. Her skin is luminous and pale, like porcelain. Her hair is like silk - long and straight and pale golden-red, a colour I had only ever seen in Renaissance paintings.
I wonder what it would be like, running my hand through that smooth curtain of hair. It would feel soft like satin and the smell would surely be subtle and sweet, but nonetheless intoxicating.
Her quill pauses mid-scrawl and she slowly lifts her head. She gazes unseeingly ahead, in deep contemplation. Her eyes are a clear grey-blue, as soft as a dove feather.
They are gentle, but behind them I see something moving, like pages turning in a book that no-one is allowed to read. Perhaps one day, I will be the exception.