When he told her that her voice sounded like Earl Grey
Tea,
and that her laugh like manic pencil scratches,
that he always drew out the pattern of her freckles on
restaurant napkins;
that she was the princess he told his little sister bed time
stories about,
that her eyelashes looked pretty when she cried,
his voice trembled like a violin string
and she cracked like the spine of a
book.
