She is more beautiful than mere words can describe. How can any string of twenty-six letters ever convey something as complex and fantastic as a human being? It's impossible, but I'll try.
Her eyes are not just brown, or chestnut, or honey, or whatever inadequate word I can choose. They are deep, deeper than the farthest reaches of the ocean. The colors swirl and blend together, not just brown but flecks of gold, rings of hazel, all dancing in an elaborate choreography I can never completely understand. They crinkle in the corners when she smiles. They widen when she's shocked or surprised. They squeeze shut when she cries, and even though her face is red and tears spill down her cheeks, she is far more amazing than the word 'perfect' can describe.
Her nose is small, what she describes as elvish. I disagree. It isn't elvish. It's like a pixie, tiny and round and cute as a button. If she tries, she can bring the tip of her tongue to her nose, a talent I have failed to master.
Her lips are thin and very, very pink. Beautifully pink. Incomprehensibly pink. Just watching them form around words, to voice the thoughts inside her vast and brilliant mind, is a privilege I'll never cease to admire. She bites them when she's nervous. She licks them, too. She gets embarrassed if I point out these mannerisms, but they just make me love her even more. She is human. She is imperfect. That makes her a million times more beautiful to me.
She doesn't believe me when I tell her she is gorgeous, when I say that flaws are synonymous with humanity, with brilliance, with majesty. She says I'm lying, that flaws are just that: cracks that should be repaired, but she is wrong. Nothing about her-- or anyone else on the planet-- is something that should be fixed. Her flaws-- being too naive, easily upset, slightly obsessive-- are as much a part of her as her good parts. And that's wonderful. I love her, everything about her, so that includes the things that might not be perfect. But that's the thing about imperfections. They aren't ugly. Imperfections are even more beautiful than the most flawless bone in her body.
The thing is, I don't want to date a Barbie doll. I'm human. I'm insecure and sad sometimes. So is every other person to ever have existed. Nobody is without flaws. Neither she nor I are any different.
So maybe she isn't a princess. Maybe she isn't rich. Maybe she isn't always happy. But neither am I, and she tells me I'm beautiful, too.
YOU ARE READING
Miscellaneous
RandomA collection of fragments, half-finished and extras of stories. Just basically everything that isn't a complete story.
