He is heavy in the chest — his limbs like petrified bark. Sweat dapples his brow, and there is a cloudiness in his sight – a type that even enchantments cannot correct – a poison that courses through the tiny tubes of his existence, striking and thwarting all that makes his matter.
She is a summer storm as she works, her hands muddling and concocting. He eases as he hears her careful worrying, ad he minds the beating of his heart: fast, then slow, then fast again, and then slow. Sun behind clouds, then moon, then sun again, and then dark.
Momentary silence descends. He senses the long and distant smell of cinnamon, clove, lemon, rosemary, and eucalyptus. There is a sultry way about it all, and the pictures in the backs of his eyes find his fingertips catching trepidatiously against the quiver of her thigh. The long sigh and the intrepid fever. There is a unique feel to the seconds as they count themselves, and in his spiral, he stretches a hand into the void. He is grasping.
Her palm acts as the celestial net, catching him from an eternal fall in the bleak notion of forever. She embraces him with stars and light and atmosphere, and there is no world without it — without the imperfect nature that is her.
She dictates spells and incantations, and she begs and soothes — her pitch flooding his auditory senses. His grip lessens as he relents, breathing in the scent of the thief and exhaling anxious desire for the dawn.
This is all there can be, and the oil burns down — cinnamon, clove, lemon, rosemary, and eucalyptus.