They kissed. They kissed until time went still and the air tasted of wine and he was still divine and he loved her. He allowed himself to yield to this moment, for this feeling that poets wrote about and gods warred about and it consumed him. Until the seas ran dry and the mountains shrank beneath the ground he would remember. So he held her desperately, clawing at the muscle and bones that caged her spirit and made her blood quicken for he wanted more. He wanted them to transcend time and stay in this perfect moment, filling himself on this feeling until he burst. He wanted all of it.
But this was not for him. He knew it in his bones. That was why he wandered alone. Her life is fleeting and it was his undoing that made him undone; made her undone until all that remained were her ears and broken years of pleading to gods that would't hear. So he drank her in until his lungs were filled and he was treading water. His resolve faltered. He was drowning in her, and he could not stop it. So he yielded, just for a moment longer.
