Quicksilver Concrete

She is transparent.
Vague outlines embrace the clouds where her head should be and rock, oceanlike, to a lullaby of clanking chains and splitting continents.

He is color.
Fiery scarlet pride and the warmth of a smoldering hearth in the dead of winter.
Cool turquoise calculation, deep royal sentiment, radiation from white-hot galaxies overflowing with every shade and temper of ardor.

He is everything and she is nucleic or central or critically isolated,
and he fills her every crevice and pore like quicksilver concrete in the cracks where the light was spilling out and sputtering into nothing.

Now it spills into him,
and all is well.