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I have never felt more alive with her.
Dancing in flight has never felt so personal. We swayed like tree branches in the wind, and our feathers gleamed in the sunlight.
Though she is the sunlight. Her touch was like the fleeting feeling of a rose petal and her voice was symphonic.
I'd shout her name from the rooftops if I could. I'd scream it like a beckoning call, and only hoped she'd come running.
I'd dreamt about her before I met her.
I dreamt of the smooth glide of her feathers, like water on marble.
Her wings were an almost pearl color, hints of pink showing through to white and gold.
They were beautiful, and they reminded me of my mother's wedding ring.
I'd only hope to court her with such a thing. She deserved something beautiful, though. She deserved life and love and something golden like she was.
Something golden to bring out the amber in her eyes.
I thought back to a Robert Frost poem, about nature's first green, and thought of her.
It was like that poem was made for her, despite him not yet knowing of the hidden species soon to come out of hiding. He wouldn't yet know he described the most beautiful girl in the world, a ray of sunshine, with a poem about the first signs of spring.
And while she isn't really perfect, nobody is, she's real. She doesn't have smooth skin or perfect hair, but she's perfect in the way people are real. The way our hearts skip a beat sometimes when we're scared, or when we make a fool of ourselves when we get excited.
She was real and breathing and lying in my lap as we watched the sunset from an old pine tree.
I watched the suns setting beams hit her face and down her neck, smoothing over the bruises found there. I watched it hit her chest and then her stomach, kissing the muscle and fat there. Finally, I watched the sun reach her legs to cup her feet, and then the day's light dissipated into thin air, bound to return tomorrow.
I didn't mind the chill that came with dusk, nor the deep sorrow of having to move.
Sylvia was my sunshine, the only light I'd need for the rest of my life. It wouldn't matter if I went blind, she'd still be there, her figure outlined in a golden glow, like the sun peeking through the clouds at golden hour.
She'd still be there.