I fell head over and under on the heels of her passion. Not for the way she looked at me or for the way she saw straight through me and laughed. Not for the way she ripped the seriousness out from under us with a comedic clash of cosmic flair, but for how she went after everything ever meant for her even if it meant she’d burn through all that was not.
Her focus didn’t teeter on the edge of hope and a fair-weathered wish, her feet burnt to ash on the coals of duty and destiny. She can stare down death and dance beyond its grip. She can heal wounds, look back and wink through their sting. She can drown in the tumbling of waves and resurface as the flames that lick the icy tips of the tide to shore. She can cut through veils of illusion and fashion them into celestial crowns that orbit the chaotic ferocity in the midst of grace.
She stands up, knees trembling, marching forward toward the only staunch opponent left standing in her way. I was born to face her and so I began. I was never looking for something temporary, anyway. How could I, when her birthright was eternal?