Ink.

She liked that stuff, the slippery black liquid, leaving a trail of dye as it slid down from her fingers, the silky feel of its watery base as it trickled down her forearm to drip down in a pool on her white dress.

Stains.

It marked its route there permanently, in her mind on her dress on her but that didn't matter, no never. Ink splodges, ink trails, the little marks where it smudged onto her sleeves, where it got printed onto the hem, where it dripped onto... Ink was ink, she loved ink, beyond that, she liked what it reminded her of.

Like the raven's wing.

She recalled that face so clearly, the paleness, the beautiful thin face. Hair like the wing of a crow, the intelligent black shade that shimmered like a jewel. The silky locks she desired to simply run her fingers through, allow it to carress her soft olive cheek.

On everything it touches.

Infatuation, she liked that word too, it was beauftiful, how many things it described, how many it encompassed.
Love, hate, wonder, desire.

On anything it comes in contact with.

Oh how beautiful the stains, the trails. But how others hated it, she frowned, they were screaming again. Her parents had screamed that she was a bad girl, a bad bad girl; Tsuruna had yelled at her, told her she was sick and needed to see a doctor; only he never screamed at her. Never yelled, never scolded, never tried to alter her life...

Except on certain surfaces that conflict with its components.

But he never noticed her in the first place.