Her. She was all he could picture when he closed his eyes, her golden hair, her emerald eyes, her sad smile. He knew that magic was real because she existed, because he could feel her beneath his fingers, because she loved him and he loved her. And that meant magic existed, just like her.
And then she was gone, her footsteps washed away with the receding tide. He wandered, his life a meandering path of women and parties and booze, but she was always there, eyeing him from across a crowded bar or shaking her long finger at his questionable liasons. He ignored her yearning eyes and avoided her beckoning lips because he knew she was a phantom, a figment of his already fractured mind.
Everything was for her. And when he finally touched her again, his skin electrified and heat raged between their bodies. She became his once more and she kissed him as if they had never been apart.
They secreted away but he couldn’t be satisfied with only pieces. He needed all of her, but she wouldn’t let go. He begged, pleaded for her to relinquish her past, to be with him now while they still had time to truly live.
When he could wait no longer, he wrapped up her image in a tiny box and set it next to her letters.
Sometimes he takes them out and remembers the scent of her hair and the pure green of her eyes. It is then that he smiles for having loved her instead of weeping at the thought of another day living without her.