Some of you may have seen these before but they remain some of my favorite writings. I need to expand upon them, I think. 🙂
She smells like sweet musk and cigarette smoke, pungent and lovely with a tint of ashy rot. She is the epitome of artsy, wrapped in the aroma of white chocolate caramel cappuccino. Her clothes are unassuming, random pieces pulled together in a style that fits only her.
Her voice is soft velvet, always pondering, brooding. A pen is poised between her fingers like a cigarette of ink and plastic as she voices her opinions, clearly aloud. The sound of her voice is intelligently soothing, her pursuit of knowledge beautifully calming.
He looked like Irish mist and sunshine, a body slender like a kendo stick, with strength to make you weep.
A man of many voices, yet what fits is the springy lilt of the Emerald Isle, comforting and sweet. Like your favorite storyteller reading your favorite book while you are cuddled in bed beneath your favorite blanket.
His stature is comfortable, somewhat approachable; his voice warm, laced with laughter.
Eyes like thunder and feathers, hands like brick mortor and lamb’s wool. He speaks of freedom, not flippantly like most of this world, but seriously. Serious as death. But this freedom means slavery. No, not slavery. Servanthood. Enslaved to love by my own choice. Not a doormat but a wash-cloth. Not a spine of jelly but a basin of water. Not slavery but servanthood.
She is brutally honest but awfully kind, the strongest woman that I know. If not the strongest, then the wisest, If not the wisest, the cleverest. If not the cleverest, the most devoted. If not the most devoted, the kindest…for she cared for me. She is a child of nature with a flair for the dramatic. Not gorgeous but the most beautiful woman I know. Her huge are like being submerged too deep in the ocean, and I love them. Her kisses speak words language never knew, and no one ever defended her little freshmen so valiantly and stalwartly.
She begs of me not to put her on a pedestal yet my love fashions a small one against my will. One where I can still reach my arms up and wrap them around her tight. More of a footstool.
She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; kind of spicy along the edges. She’s secretly creative and, at times, creatively secretive. She can bite your head off one second and smooth away your troubles the next. She’s better than a diary because she doesn’t only listen; she talks back, too. She has strength beyond imaginings, yet goes weak at the sight of her daughter. She’s the sweetest mixture of cynicism and affection; but just a tad spicy along the edges.
The ghost of Tolkien, Beowulf, and Sigurd walks around in daylight. A laugh incomparable by dwarvish jests and love of books long enduring. He is like a wizard summoned for the Fifth Age, to lead and teach until his task is done. He has all the time in the world and a heart to outlast it all. A Maiar in tweed.
A soul of fire, a mind of sharpened edge. A secret world held in her mind, of detail and depth incomparable. A hand gentle yet strong to grasp the sword and skillful with pen.
I love her presence, her laugh like a Highland song. An old soul full of memory of beauty. A bard of myth. She searches for voices from the past, listening to the tales they tell. She learns from the previous generation to pass it on to the next. A scholar and warrior, comforter and commander. Her heart speaks with a voice beyond her years, with a voice beyond time.