Disenchanted

Slowly, he could see the sandstorm in her eyes. Dark and fierce, messy and scarred. Almost like an unceasing desert whose it's best companion was an unending storm. His hands slowly touched her face, caressing it in his hands, touching her as careful as he could as if she was a mystical being, as if she were to soon run from him. But she remained, staring at him, feeling his hot hands gently holding her face. He looked up from his hands to her starry eyes. He awed at the tragic yet beauty in her. For him, it felt as if he were reading her whole, like seeing her bare. And the longer he stared the more his hands wandered. They left from her cheek and flowed to her neck, while he took a step forward to her. She gazed at him, her eyes demanding less space between them, and as he kept reading her eyes, the air felt tighter between them. His hands grabbed her waist, once and for all, and took one more step towards her. He grabbed her, squeezed her sides as if she were to be gone when it ended. His eyes drooped, and then he felt plumy fresh lips making contact with his. His heart fluttered, and so his hands flowed from her waist to her hair, and his lips became activated with love. He loved her. She loved him. But she didn't dare to touch him. Because when he opened his eyes again, she was gone, and he was back in the edge of his bed.