Miraculous. That was exactly the word.

She is miraculous, spectacular, fantastic. She is inspiring, creative, persuasive. It's a remarkable thing, the control she has over me, even if it wasn't mutual. I don't know if she has any idea how much I plead for her, how much I need her with me.

It's insane, really. I've never needed something so much as her. She is my oxygen. She's my magical core for all the bloody sense it makes. Without her, I would only be a piece of beech wood, or oak, maple, the prettiest of cases with the emptiest of cores.

"Please," is always my whisper, though she needs no beckoning. She needs no plead, no cry, only my touch. It seems that that is all anything ever takes anymore.

She always obliges, always presses forward even when I am meant to collapse. She keeps me upright in her lunatic way, keeps me folded against her yet she still adds another and pushes me right over the edge. Sometimes it's powerful, sometimes subtle, but there is always that fleeting glance I have backwards before I am thrust straight into a miraculous oblivion.

I've always hoped that I conjure the same emotions in her, but I have never asked. I don't know if my prodding and delicate, long fingers push her over the edge like hers do to me. I don't know if she internally wants to plead to me, wants to cry out with everything she has in her. I only give her all I can, always pouring myself into a cup for her, always giving her every ounce of love that I have left.

"Miraculous," she murmurs.

Miraculous.