He will not merely look, he will see deeply and without permission, into the fragile corridors you thought were yours alone. He will peer gently past the implacable practiced smile and into the quiet tremble beneath, echoes of hopes you haven’t yet put into words, or don’t yet know are your own.
He will take what is fleeting, benign, glances, gestures, the way your voice tilts when you are unsure, and transmute them into something permanent. Ideas, dreams, resolve, all will be gathered like rain in his cupped hands, and then spilled gently across his pages, so that time can no longer dissolve their permanence.
And you will live there, forever, not just as you were but as he felt you to be, in that time, in that fevered clarity that only the idea of love can collide with. Not just in the words themselves, but in the silent hush between them, the ache of unspoken pauses, the longing that leaks between lines.
In those words, your essence is both wound and salve. His and yours intertwined. A rhythm, a dance, a resonance. Something of the sacred. A trio suspended between ink, intention, and sky.
He will find himself in you, and you in him. Eternal. Truth dressed in metaphor, unmistakably, irrevocably, inevitably, you.