Silver Isn't A Real Color

This is the prelude to a story I'll be making soon.

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There once lived a her and him. Up on a rich green hill they stayed. She wrote letters and scores. He sang out of tune and danced to the sound of her beating soul. Here I am, waiting to hold you. So flawlessly, you stand. Sweet magic of angel. Let us swim through this valley. Cold rain pitter-patters against the concrete and splashes perfectly on her skin. Paint me over. Paint me perfect, I say. This is what I like to call ‘love’. He clutched her in a grip so tight; she thought she’d never fall. He held onto her forever. Tears welled in her eyes and she gasped. He was hers. She mustn’t ever let go. Hold on forever. This was what they liked to call ‘love’. It felt like a drug. A sweet and tasteful drug. Silver and perfect. Always perfect. Always silver. She cannot stop. She cannot and he cannot either. He will not and cannot either. It’s like. A drug. A sweet and tasteful drug. A poem. It’s like a poem. Sniffling and giggling. Can you taste it? Sweetness. Everything is always so sweet. Ripe, like plums and nectarines from a weeping willow. His skin was soft, like velvet. His skin was soft, like velvet. Did you ever taste it? She glides her fingertips slowly and gently atop the skin of an angel. He was an angel, she tells him. Clumsy him, must’ve dropped his wings. His silver wings. She kisses the invisible scars and wonders when or if they’ll ever grow back. Mad, I say. She’s mad, I tell you. Rolling down the rich green hill, she grasps onto his fingertips and laughs as they fall. Catch me, my darling. He smiles and they plunge into the silver seas.

checked. phanta.

I commented on Facebook.
i'm so speechless.
I missed you. and your writing.

As fantastic as silver is, even though it isnt a real color.