She was a riot of color, of chords, of words. Passion in reds and bass notes, frivolity in pastels and trebles. Words vibrated around her and collided without breaking. Strong words like lust and cock and cunt and love. She blazed, until she didn’t. Until reds faded to blues and the notes grew discordant, the words a nonsensical jumble. That was when he put his hands out, opened his arms, pulled the mess of her against his chest and found her heartbeat with his. If he held her firmly, put his mouth against her hair and breathed her, pulled her skin into his own, her chaos would quiet. Her heartbeat followed his, slowing, her breathing syncopated with his own, and her A minor shrill flowed into a swirl of soft purples and shadows. She steadied.
If love were a song, or a painting, or even a verse, he thought it would be nothing of the schmaltz that spread like a romanticized kudzu vine. It would be this. Painful moments turned quiet, chaos turned lustful, and the soul was renewed. He thought if she burned any lower perhaps he wouldn’t love her as much. That his calm found its home with her chaos, and that was how it should be.