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The agony of his obsession would be enough to make him shudder, to imagine himself as a drowned man, a bloated corpse among the waves of her infinite pleasure. He would float himself away on the tides, drink the foam of her love as the seagulls pecked his flesh away.
As a skeleton he would sink to the bottom of her ocean, to lie among the graveyard of the ships she had sunk with her love.
Sorrow. The bitterest of emotions; is it masochistic if one enjoys it?
He would ball the sheets into his hands and sob as he remembered her. And the tide rolled in, and the tide rolled out, and he floated away.
The drowned sailor on the crest of the wave, spying the first rays of morning, the hope, the most dangerous of Pandora's gifts, the plea he breathes like the humblest prayer from cracked lip for friendly shores.
He washed up upon white sands and took his first shallow breaths.
He was in love.
He sees her in flashes in a crowded hall, all long legs and flighty hands. He remembers lonely afternoons in the empty rooms of their ancestors- a decaying home, the ghosts of relatives who died young lingering in between the heavy brocaded curtains and in the layer of dust on the furniture; nights spent with a candle on the floor of the drawing room, wax dripping onto the wood floor, his hand resting gingerly on her thigh as she ran her skinny fingers over his palm.
A life line. A head line. A heart line.
"Oh," he hears her soft voice say, a sharp inhale of breathe. "What's this?"
She picks at the fourth line, tracing a nail through the deep cut of it, the sharp line that puts all the others to shame, broken and cracked but evident.
"Fate line," she mutters. "Lucky you."
He feels the derision in her voice. The candle flame casts shadows on her face like the eye sockets of a corpse.
She plucks at his heart like a child testing the strings of a violin- a note, short, sweet, incomplete. She knows nothing of how to make it sing.
He imagines gentleness now, asleep against her, sheltering her from the January wind as they curl together amongst the brambles on the forest floor. Rotting leaves and a canopy of frozen branches across a sky more white than blue.
Pure. Perfect. Like her.
The terror of that moment is all-encompassing, the moment he knows he can no longer turn back, he is hers, hers alone, and there can be no approximation of his feeling now- it is her or nothing, her arms, her soft skin. And he is spinning, and spinning, and falling, as if he has lost his grip on everything, as if the center of his universe has shifted into those marvelous gray eyes.
It sings. It sings. It sings for her alone.