She was champagne and sunshine in her honey tinted smile; as if the rays of dawn decided to abandon the skies and latch itself on to her raven tresses.
Young as freshly squeezed orange juice, sweeter than syrup on waffles and warmer than toasted bread, she promised cherry-on-top sundaes, burnt eggs sunny side up and greasy French toast more overcooked than her heart.
He felt afraid. He didn't want to have her slip through his fingers like oil oozing out of a scallion pancake.
Her silken giggle was a gentle thrum nestled in between the spaces of her ribcage, a sound reminding him of an old jingle his mother used to hum from her favourite daytime television soap. She breathed words as if they sighed lavender hues of nostalgia and touched him softer than the notes on the piano on a Sunday mass in Church. Her kisses dripped thick with molten marshmallows on his tongue and her hugs swallowed his whole like a grandmother-stitched quilt sheltering a body on a cold winter's day.
Her hair was like a cluster of forget-me-nots laughing in the wind, bright and uninhibited. She trotted as if she was the minty summer breeze in June that nipped his skin like a paper cut. She spoke in tones of honeysuckle, that tasted like the sweetest of poison when he kissed her.
She was his seraph, milky white daydreams wrapped tightly around the purchase of her waist breaking through his valleys and clearing his obscure, overcast skies.