She was carefully crafted to be fragile but choose to be a diamond over a coal.
Her skin reminds me of bed where I can be both vulnerable and secured.
A place to rest my head.
She may not know it but to me
her hair smelled like home on a summer night.
Her hands were so small yet when she holds mine,
she holds my whole world along with it.
She loves cats, vintage cameras, Ed Sheeran, the beach
road trips, the rural life, Harry Potter, of course she's a potterhead
These are the things that bring color to her.
Then fireflies emerge from their slumber to gather around her.
If I were to paint just her eyes I'd get a night sky
And in it lies her vast number of quirks in which,
more often than not
I find myself lost.
Her voice echo with melodies beyond what I could comprehend
But this is love, not logic.
I believe I was not meant to understand her.
I believe I was meant to love her.
