He was a Breathtaker. A royal, high-class, naturally-born, take-it-or-leave-it Breathtaker. I had never seen one before in real life, only heard about them in the tales of a girl's childhood.
The first day he took my Breath was in a parking lot. He stood there alone in the parking lot, with his sparklers in hand, and wrote words in the air for no one but himself to see. He hummed while he wrote, haphazardly opening his mouth slightly, in a never-ending melody.
Later, I found out that the words he wrote in the air would later be turned into music, beautiful songs that could lift your feet off the ground and give your soul the wings to fly. But this first night, I knew nothing of the breathtaker's ability to create such beauty.
The lit end of the sparkler seemed to be a metaphor for the Breathtaker's aura. Shining, energetic, with a tendency to mezmerize. One didn't want to stop watching his mind at work.
So I sat there in the grass and watched him. Looking at the swift motion of his arms, I became entranced by the passion with which he worked. So quickly, I couldn't even pick up much of what he was writing. One could easily tell, however, that he wasn't going to forget a word of it.
I, however, had brought my typewriter for such an occasion. I sat there and typed words that he made me feel. The first line was "intrigue. night sky. man. electricity fingers. fizzled feelings. stranger. lips. curls. air. no breath."
And so my Breath was hardpressed to move. It entered my mouth and stopped, right below my soft palette, not wanting to enter further. My Breathing was very shallow, almost a soft hyperventilation, caught between time moving and time paused.
