Some would be smeared black oil pastel crudely trying to capture the bend of her back, the sinnewy form with her arms arching like willow tree branches. Others would be pencil drawlings using different leavels of lead density to give her eyes depth, to give her curves distance. One night, he had woken up and the moonlight had slung itself over one of the drawings of her, and he almost reached out with a longing hang to see if he could reach inside past paper, to slide around the impossible invitation of her waist and feel the secret textures of her skin. He had withdrawn his hand, and with tens of her looking back at him from chalk, pencil, paints, mutely viewing, he found that his loneliness shrieked, while his longing just whimpered.
A thin ray of light caught the dust that had gathered in the house and the sunlight spiraled down amoung what seemed giant atoms, slow and inflexible. The sunlight just missed her bare arm, her skin instead adopting the dark, sensual layer of shadows. He could feel her eyes, though. He could always feel her vision, could practically see twin trails of it.
She moved one day, and he found himself at the end of a walk outside in brisk autumn air, in front of her old house. There was dust on the floor. He went inside, the old wood creaking, the house vacant. Sunlight swung in through the gaps of the walls and lazily skipped along the impression of ballet slippers in the dust, still there. He crouched, felt sections of sunlight across his shoulder and back. Outside, the distant drone of a small plane, of a lawnmower.
The dust was thin but did wonders to capture a tap of a toe, or the perfect-cirle pattern that had slid into the dust when she would rotate. Her choreography, all here, all recorded. He pressed a hand to a foot imprint, marveling at hos small her feet had been. This particular print had toes dotted along the outside of the foot.
She had taken off the shoes, massaging her feet, and he had said nothing but moved alongside her, then over her, and her hands drew from her feet to his back and sides as he had kissed her.
He looked further up from the dust-print. There, a few feet away, a thin print of her back, and a history of when they had stopped being two people and instead a blend, just for one summer afternoon. He stood, seeing her dance again in-between threads of sunlight and shadow, silent, like watching an old film. She flickered and went out. The projectionist was slumped over, fast asleep. The filmstrip dissolved, the scripts burned. So goes the dismal finality of a memory shutting down. He leaned against the frame, looking inside once more before closing the door and leaving.
Outside, Autumn roamed in-between treetops and inside the skittering crackle of leaves skipping over the asphault.
Outside, the sun a slow burn behind clouds.
Outside, a change of seasons.