Like a Moth…

He had always felt drawn to her, a pulling that he couldn’t resist. Like a moth to a flame.

He loved her hair, it was like silk under his fingers. He could spend hours running his fingers or a brush through her long locks. Sometimes he actually did for hours without even noticing that time was passing.

Her skin was like caressing the wings of a butterfly. The tattoo on her arm as colorful as a rainbow. He would sometimes trace the lines of it with his fingers over and over, humming a little song about rainbows as he did so. His voice was off key, but she didn’t mind.

Her clothes were always perfect. Never a spot or a stain, never a loose stitch or an uneven hem.

She was perfect. Absolutely perfect. Her face, that was the crowning glory of her entire self. The long lashes, dark as soot against her perfect, porcelain skin. Her lips, always stained with the burgundy color that he loved so much. The slight pink of the blush that colored her cheeks. It was all such perfection.

His fingers caressed the perfectly unblemished skin, tracing her lips, tracing her eyebrows with their perfect arches.

She was so close to ideal, the closest he’d ever found in a woman before, and believe me, he’d been trying for a long time.

There was just always something that wasn’t quite right. Sometimes when he was taking them they’d fight back so hard that they’d end up with cuts or horrible scrapes that he couldn’t fix. Not once they were dead.

This one though, she was the ultimate woman. The prime specimen in his collection. He brushed her hair one last time and patted her cheek before placing a sweet kiss on her lips.

“Goodnight, my love.” He said.

This is my five minute freewrite thanks to @mariannewest on steemit

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