His heart touches you like fire.

It’s the eyes that do it, so clear and piercing that it feels like they look right through you, but suck you in all at once. You spiral down a neverending chute of pale turquoise and you don’t want to stop falling. Falling is such sweet sorrow.

Hands with bitten half-moons of nails that captivate you. A dent in the wrist behind strong-boned thumb, dancing graceful polkas over ebony and ivory. His hands sing, pouring his soul out onto the keys, weeping a melodic soliloquy of love and loss.

It is not love. It is awe, raw and more powerful than all things. He is a God, omnipotent ruler of your attention, from whom you cannot turn away. Some would call it love, some obsession. It is merely a fascination, but oh how merely a fascination it is.

You close your eyes and see only his.

It burns.

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