He is the shadows.  

Tree.  

Barcelona.

Gulp.  Burning.  Lick my lips, taste the oily smudges of Red Rose 12.

Drunk.  Wrist.  Limp.

 Tuck a stray curl behind my ear, my fingertips brushing the side of my neck.  Sear.  Paint.

 Pastel.  

A streak of orange light from the flickering candle between us sends a stripe down the inky, twisted lock.  

Gloss.  Fire.

"If my heart were a road," he asks evenly, "and you wanted to be my lover for one forever . . .

what would you do?"

I close my lips, and then speak.

 Purple.  Flash.  A smirk.  Crocodile.

"I'd walk."