She made me feel the way a sunset colors the sky. Her flowing hair rolled over her shoulder blades like ocean waves cresting on the sandy shores of some forgotten paradise. The way she walked -or rather- the way she carried herself, was as if her every movement was conducted by the the wind itself. She was poetry and I was helpless to become a poet in her wake. But she was cold, Her heart was bone dry like a winter night and her motives made alcohol turn to ice. The curve of her hips perfectly replicated a trigger and I could think of no sweeter death than to have one of her bullets be that last thing to go through my mind. It was then I realized how a man could play Russian roulette. The way her lips pursed every time she saw me made me understand why men went to war. Her hands fit the curve of my neck like a noose and there was nothing I wanted to do but hang. Looking at her was staring at the sun and it wasn't until I met her that I understood what my mother meant when she told me not to touch a hot stove, because things that glow often burn us. Yet just like the hot stove, I failed to learn this until I tried.