I stubbornly resisted my feelings for him. I was afraid to drown in the pool of his eyes. To be with him is to swim in a fast, dangerous current, without a lifeline, go through all the circles of hell and return to life again. He's not perfect, no. In it, demons rage and fires burn in the ocean of eyes. He has a sick soul, which somehow, incomprehensibly to me, clung to me fiercely and firmly. He is zealous, dangerous, and demands utopian love for himself and his demons. But he's not someone who can just walk away and leave you to perish in his sadness. Behind the dark doors of his soul lives that innermost thing that sometimes bursts out — love, compassion, kindness in actions, the intention to protect from everyone ... to love like no one else, declaring war on his demons.
These are not hands...It's just a magical instrument that plays masterfully with hair. Your hands are like the brushes of an artist who paints beautiful unique masterpieces ...