Unproper Grammar: It's been months since I've written for this category, but I've been in a Sorato mood, so whatever. :)

This is littered with spelling and grammar errors, but I love it.


You Practically Rock


It is she that gives him his inspiration. She is his muse, his magic, his lyrics, rhythm and rhyme.

It's her auburn hair that dances over his face, grazes his cheeks as she leans over him, her eyes dancing with mirth and happiness. It's her lips that he glides his own over. It is her taste that is so alluring and enticing all at once.

And god, he loves it.


He asks her one day if she could live without him. He tends to be a little bit melodramatic (though she swears up and down that she finds it endearing); and it was one of those moments where he's being absolutely and completely absurd, only he thinks of it as 'deep.'

She laughed and grew quiet, only before answering that she probably could, only life would be a little bit harder, and way darker.

He wrote her an entire song that night, filled with chord changes and promises of never leaving her side.


They're sharing a soda when he notices how perfect her lips are. They're soft and smooth, a light shade of pink. They're not too plump, like another girl he knows, nor are they too thin. She doesn't drown them in glosses and colours like that same other girl, and yet he imagines they'd taste even more sweet.

When he leans over the table and kisses her, it feels like it's for the first time and he's filled with this feeling of elation.


She's the light in his darkness.

It would be a lie to say that he's spent his entire life happy and cheerful. He doesn't do happy, god, no. Angry, yes. Angsty? Of course. But happy.

No. Not often, anyways.

But she keeps him sane. She throws light in all directions and he's practically blinded by it. She's given him love, something so pure and so real that he almost wants to drop his reputation, everything he's all about and embrace this insanity know as pure joy.

And sometimes, when no one's around but the two of them, he does.

And she's glad for it.


By the time they've been together for a year, he's written seventy-nine songs, filled two notebooks with lyrics and become addicted to her herbal tea. Even more so, the scent of her lavender shampoo and the sound of her steady breathing have become prominent parts of his life, his world.

She's painted twenty-four paintings. Some in oils, others in water colours and a few in acryllics. Her favourite is the one she did in black ink, which really isn't a painting at all. It's more a rough sketch, one of his figure and she loves it. There's a small spot of ink where he bumped her hand by accident, and it makes it flawed.

However, it's undeniably perfect all the same. Kind of like him.

He can't imagine life without paper all over his apartment, from sheet music to her sketchbook. He can't imagine wearing his leather jacket for prolonged periods of time; it looks too good on her, and it smells amazing when he gets it back.

She's quiet sometimes, and she's soft and sweet and understanding. She doesn't put too much pressure on him, yet she pushes him when he needs to be. And for all of this, he is so glad.

So he'll sit back, relax and pick at the strings on his bass. He feels that there's another song about skies and rubies and birds popping into his head.