In the end it wasn't bombs, it was love.

Hey, YWP. I've been virtually (heh, pun) absent this summer and I've been very sad about it. However, I have been writing! I'll post a few things here that I would really appreciate comments on. 
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To him she was beautiful in her imperfections.
Beautiful in that her hair didn't fall straight and smooth across her back. It lay in frizzy waves that curled around her arms, around her spine, behind her ears. Beautiful in that her eyes were not pure blue nor green but a muddy-brown that sometimes reminded him of coffee. Beautiful in that she was not pencil thin, would never be pencil thin, her curves were like mountains and they were beautiful like mountains.
He was beautiful to her for all the wrong reasons.
Reasons like the fact that he was a chain smoker and smoke would drift from his lips like upside-down waterfall (that smooth). Reasons like the fact that he was incapable of middle-ground feelings, everything was intense and when it was intense it was intensely perfect or intensely imperfect. Reasons like the fact that when things were intensely imperfect he wrote the most beautiful poetry she had ever read and she was very attracted to artists.
(They knew that if they ended up together everything would go horribly wrong. Buildings would fall and they sky would rain a thousand tiny apocalypses. You see, in the end none none of this ended because of bombs [It was love].)

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