I remembered everything about him, his smile, his laughter, the very way he walked. The way he strode across the earth in great strides that ate up the earth as he went, his body sinuously moving in emulation to a feline lord of the forest. Yet he held to himself, never being too bold, letting out a great amount of energy, that seemed to just draw back into him. 

            I couldn’t forget his smile, which came as rarely as his laughter, but when it came, I would have given anything to hear it one more time. Then there were the corners of his mouth that turned up ever so slightly even when his face was relaxed. When he smiled, all I could think of was touching him, being with him. Nothing else seemed important.

            Every time he moved my eyes were unconsciously drawn, no matter how hard I resisted. He was dangerous, yet I would have easily placed my life in his hands to do with as he would.

            I used to strip him with my eyes, revealing every subtle but delicious curve that marked him apart from others. I often felt like running my hands through his hair as I would pull him too me, imagining his steady arms folding around my shoulders and my waist, drawing me to him in return.

            His eyes undid me every time, as I saw the underlying emotions, fear, uncertainty, pain, and loss, I wanted to take them from him and replace them with my feelings for him. I wanted him to see himself the way I saw him, because then he would know the torturous bliss I went through every time he was near.

            His innocence barely peaked out through the layers of corruption an lost youth, but I saw it anyways. I wished to pluck it to the surface and nourish it. I wished to coo him softly to sleep at night, holding his head in my lap and stroking his hair, asking nothing in return but the hope that someday he might do the same for me.

            In him I also saw myself. I saw the loneliness, I saw the fear to reach out because of rejection, I saw the capacity to love, and I saw an appreciation of the little things. And I wanted to share all of me with him, knowing that we would have very little in common overall, but the loneliness itself would be enough.

            His hands fascinated me, hands that could artistically print out the most beautiful things, but also hands that could easily deal a deadly blow in an instant. Their very shape and definition I wanted to study. I wanted to take his hand in mine and trace the lines and the veins, and the scars that defined him.

            There wasn’t anything I wanted to change about him. I even loved the lazy way his eyes seemed to stare out at the world, that sleepy look that sent chills down my spine, all the way to my legs. I had to catch myself from obviously wobbling a few times when he looked my way.

            I wanted to clasp onto him and cry, for my lack of hope, and for how beautiful he was, and for the rain and the sunshine. I wanted to cry into his chest even just for the sake of crying.

            I wanted to feel his bare skin under mine, one of my more carnal desires I’d ever had, yet my intentions were pure. I only wished to be close to him, to feel that he was real.

            But then I knew better. I wished nothing more to run my hands up his chest and down his back, I wanted to put my palms to that delicious slight curve between his waist and his hips.  I wanted to sit on his hips and pull him up to me, drawing his face into a hungry kiss. I wanted to feel his mouth against mine, his tongue against my own.

            I had surprised myself at my own thoughts, because I had never seen anyone this way. My biggest state of infatuation was wishing someone to hug me… but him… I wanted to make him mine.

            As my thoughts traveled on, I was introduced to the dark depths of my mind that I hadn’t known existed. I stopped my thoughts fearfully as they reached the point where it was demanding to be near him, to have him a part of me, even if it was so drastic a measure that I would have to feel his warm blood against my skin, dripping down like rain.

            I shivered at the thought of ever hurting him. I would rather it be my own blood than his, but still something about the thought of warm, almost hot blood still excited me. Had my musings warped my mind or was I just so desperate to touch him that I would resort to that. I didn’t dare approach him for fear that I would do something drastic if he rejected me. I was afraid of myself, and I was afraid for him.

            My mind soon rejected the fleeting thought of blood as I huddled over myself and cried. It had somehow realized that it went to far. The carnal desire to touch him I could understand, but not killing, nor maiming, or simply a small cut. I couldn’t even think of hurting him, he was precious to me.

            I loved him for his mind, I loved him for his cynicism, and I loved him for his grim outlook. I loved him for his occasional happiness, which I had yet to glimpse for more than but a moment.  I had seen him grin in maniacal glee, but something was odd about the smile, like it was more painful than happy. Although I enjoyed even that expression on his face, I longed to see one of joy.

            Then there were my dreams. I dreamed of his hands around mine, I dreamed of him looking down from above me, smiling as his hair fell down around his face. I dreamed that I was with him and I dreamed of him calling my name in that broken whisper, I dreamed of him telling me he needed me, he wanted me. I dreamed I was his.

            All my dreams were seen through rose-colored glass, and I resented ever waking up, just, as I feared falling asleep the night before for the same reason. I wished to dream forever, because Enishi was gone.