She is consistantly lubricious. She is mad, and she has a clarity that misses nothing. She savours everything, sucking it dry before letting the refuse fall into the wake behind her. One after another, in rapid-fire, these flames of moments become her heartbeat. She drives fast, but eats slowly, and her laughter always shows teeth. She never stops for long, but everywhere she's been, she leaves a scene. She comes in like a whisper, carrying the force of a hurricane at her heels. In the short time that she has come and gone, only rarely does anyone even remember she was there. But they are always left aching.
She is the best night you've ever had. She is the worst night you've ever had. She is that moment at the beginning of a storm when the skies open up, the gasp just before the first crushing blanket of falling rain makes impact. She's like the onset of a headrush, when you can feel it coming, just before it hits you and floods your veins. She's like the instant of silence before the car hits, the vaccum of sound before the scream of twisting metal and the waterfall staccato of shattered glass upon cement. She is the fullest throb of a bassline, and the cresting of an orgasm.
You've probably seen her, somewhere once upon a time. From the corner of your eye, you caught a glimpse of movement in the crowd that completely attracted your attention. You saw black, a hint of skin, and you saw the curve of arm and hip, swaying smoothly forward. Her hair was tousled, moving. The light hit just right, like a full-body hug. You saw everything, even the shadow possiblity of her eyes and open mouth, just before you turned. And then she was gone.
Don't try to find her. You won't.
She finds you.