1 | Perfectly Imperfect
I will forever be subjected to your recklessness. You are not perfect, but then again, you are more perfect for me than you'll ever realize. It will never dawn on you like it dawned on me.
And that is okay, as long as you l...
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being in paris, france (or actually living there and experiencing it) is ambient; it is string lights and blinding lights. even in the nighttime everything shines. falling in love in paris is euphoric. clipping then painting another woman's nails is, like, extremely gay when it's just the two of them, but don't tell goldie that. and it's very gay when she gives in and stares in my eyes, constantly telling me how beautiful i am (when she herself is utterly cute, adorable).
i lay on top of her as she sits down on the bed, looking away from my eyes and at the stars on the ceiling; the lights from them let the room be casted a murky blue. i stretch out her legs, and they reach the vintage dresser that's not only full of clothes, but books, papers, and linens. two very small plotted plants (their names perennial and santorini myrtle) sit on the dresser next to my stash of art supplies; acrylic, oil and watercolor paints. i carefully hold an angled eyeliner brush between my pudgy fingertips as i slowly use the body of the tip to drag and create a smooth line (liquid eyeliner is sharp and dramatic, but it suits her well).
