He always loved maps. He supposed that those who drew maps were essentially explorers as well. So while he grew up, it wasn’t surprising to learn that he wanted to be a cartographer. Most importantly, when he met her.

It wasn’t so hard to see how his eyes gazed a second to long at her back with neck innocuously shown. It would seem that his ambition has moved on to be one where he wished he could, if possible, be a cartographer not in the physical sense of the word; rather, he would be a cartographer of her.

He would be the one who would study her. He would be the one to pinpoint unchartered territories on her skin, with child-like wonder. He would discover depths in her eyes, most probably soften his gaze as he discovered sensuality in her. The crevices of her body and skin; each scar, blemish and mark, mapped into lines and symbols by his affection and curiosity. His calloused hands would remind him of how graceful hers are compared to his. And like the world to be explored; she was his world. He would draw the map with details, and details would always matter, details would never be enough to cover more details, because her essence if forever wafting. And like the world which in nature is a paradox — he would discover her temperaments that elicits wildness and danger. Everything in her that lies in tragic obscurity would be for him to learn, to understand. He would realize that, through all that effort–sometimes pained and futile–there really was so much more to her, and how little there is to his knowledge.

His greatest map drawn would be the one of her, on her, for her.

A/N: I don’t like this that much :/

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