"Fascinating Things"

I am always drawn to the hours between midnight and dawn, those hours when the wind has stilled and the night is reborn young, only to grow old and die again.
The scars on people’s bodies and all the stories behind them.
The destructive beauty of fire and flame. The flickering of candles as they’re lit or touched by the wind and the crackle of a campfire as it eats away slowly at its supper of old logs and tree branches.
The contrast between dark hair and pale skin, green eyes and red lips.
Haphazard plans, spontaneous road trips, mistaken identities, and anything that can lead to chance meetings. Adventures where the characters don’t even know each other’s names. A little mystery.
The idea of angels, not with white feather wings and trumpets and robes, but as human souls and guardians and wise poets who are older than the earth. The idea that some people may be more than they seem.
Abandoned buildings, especially churches and cottages, with unkempt, unruly gardens, where ferns run wild and willow branches make tangled walls.
The condensation that runs down a glass of ice-cold water on a hot day.
Guitar fingers—rough on the ends and full of coordination. Piano fingers—long and slender and delicate. Especially when one person has both.
Old clothes, ugly clothes, baggy clothes. Clothes with floral print and shoulder pads that beg to be ripped apart and re-sewn into something new and different. Clothing with potential.
A secret kept so well that its unveiling is the truest of surprises.
The way the ocean waves slide along the shore as they retract toward their mother, leaving only smooth sand behind. The foam on the sea as it attacks anyone standing in its way. The many shades of teal, turquoise, cerulean, sapphire, and sometimes just pure, pure blue that mix and mingle in the water’s depths.
The crisp smell of new snow as it blankets the land and cleans away its imperfections.
Puppies who jump, even when they’re told not to, because they can’t contain their excitement anymore.
Libraries, full of ancient books with musty pages, where people are quiet and no one disturbs you if you’re curled up in an armchair with a crooked pile of adventure novels.
The way sleeping next to someone on a tiny bed forces the two of you to wrap your arms around each other so you don’t fall off, and the way you can never be cold when you’re that close together.
People who laugh whenever they want, as loud as they want, with no regard for who their happiness is disturbing. Squeaky laughs that sound like dolphins and screeching laughs that pierce sound locks. People who dance in the rain and sing in public without any inhibitions.
The wind when it tugs at my hair and tries to tell me all its stories and troubles, even though it sometimes hurts my ears.
The sight of an angry goose chasing a small child down the river beach, the child screaming and laughing and crying all at once.
Animals that mate for life, like penguins and gibbons and swans and wolves. Even termites and vultures who understand love better than humans do.