in that tiny room silence was glazing the sunrise and a soft mist seemed to filter each particle of light making it look like molten honey. it didn’t matter whether outside it was summer or winter, or something in-between of those two – in that room time always appeared to be frozen, in a sweet stillness smelling like lavender and tender ignorance that could almost make you smile.
there were seven hues of green in her eyes. he had counted them all, as they sparkled hypnotically emeraldine, peeking shamelessly through the large windows as if wanting to take their flight. “angels would kill for such sheens” he thought, not without a shade of pride in his mind – after all, she belonged to him.
there was love, and passion, and endless gazing interrupted only by the need for sleep forcing eyes to close, followed by sudden wake-ups from nightmares in which she was no longer there, and each time his hand touched the smooth contours of her body his blood stream seemed to be flooded with the most marvelous narcotic. he knew he loved her. he knew he adored her.
she stood there, right next to his bed, naked, showered by the waves of thoughts cascading from his dilated, awed pupils, always replying to that with the same stillness of her emerald-cut irises and with the same glacial innocence of all masterpieces, while all his thoughts kept imploring for the same thing, over and over again:
“come to life, Galatea!”
© Liliana Negoi; public domain illustration