I hope we never part

Their love was apricity. 

Together, warmth in winter, fire and ice, she and he, never one without the other, never really apart. (I hope we never part.) 

She, of course, was fire. 

It was in her heart. The soft kind, not the violent kind. The fire that warms homes on chilly November nights. The fire of her little sisters’ birthday candles. The fire that burned like her cheeks the first time he kissed her. 

A flame danced on her tongue. It sparked and flickered and could catch a blaze in a millisecond. As he would learn, this fire was better left unprovoked. But it could die as fast as it started, usually with a deep breath, a count to ten, and a (sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry). 

It was brightest in the way she moved. She was mesmerizing. Every step, every twirl of her hair, it was like one fatally enthralling dance. She was quick on her feet and even quicker witted, always the first to smile and last to give up. 

He, then, was winter. 

It was in his heart. The way he loved was somber, if not world-ending. To him, the only light that held a candle to her was that of an early November morning, before the rest of the world was awake, when the day was his and hers and no one else’s. 

His hands were incurably cold. No matter how many mittens she’d knit him, how fast he’d rub his palms together, they stayed eternally frozen. But she didn’t mind– again and again she’d breathe a breath into his fingers and squeeze the warmth in. 

It froze over his apologies. He couldn’t amend fault until it was way past bedtime, and he thought it was way past too late. (I’m sorry, you know?) he’d whisper from across their bed, (sorry, I’m sorry I’m sorry.) and always came a murmured (I know). And he could finally sleep. 

When he awoke, again it was she and he, never one without the other, never really apart. (Never will we part.) He’d run his frozen fingers through her hair, mixing warmth in winter, fire and ice, and creating apricity.