Musings of a dumb bitch

Her

If roses are pink then her lips were God's inspiration for roses.
If the sun glows gold it was only ever to imitate her skin.
If onyx could ever shine so, it's fibers crowd to make up her hair.

Shakespeare's mistress may have been so lovely as to appear in such a manner in his gaze but he never had the pleasure of meeting this girl.
It was a simple hello over a crowded table of friends of my friend.
She was beautiful. No doubts.
A snow white top with yellow flowers that shone almost as bright as her.
She joked, and laughed to us on the way there. About the funny new socks she found, they were just avacado patterned socks. But I laughed in earnest.
I always do when I'm with her.
Even at the "That's what she said" jokes.

When I found out how you felt the world stopped. The traffic seemed to brake and life fell to sleep.
I felt as though the air had been knocked out my lungs and I stopped whilst I tried to piece my mind back together.
My friend kept asking me what I was thinking. I said I didn't know.
It was the truth, because even with my eyes open all I could was her face.
Laughing
Smiling
Crying
Tired
Bored
Asleep
All I could see was her.
And now I don't know what to do.
I don't know how, how to show how I feel. How to treat her the way she deserves. I can't understand why, you deserve so much more. It's not self pity, it's the truth.
I'm painfully unfunny, rudely pretentious for my level of stupidity, chubby and spotty, dark circles and scars with eyes too small and too close.
Face too big and a nose that juts out like a ski slope. Small lips and big cheeks, thin hair and ears that stick out.
Why?
She could have anyone, why would she choose me.
I think she's confused, as much as I adore her, I hope she is confused because then I don't have to subject her to myself. Disappoint her when she realises I'm not the person she thought I was.
I don't want to hurt her.
She needs to be happy.

I'm so selfish that I can't help but still want to be with her though. I want to hold her and be held. Know all of her quirks and dreams. Know her as well as I know my self.
See her smile, watch her eat a baguette in one hand and absolutely destroy someone in Clash Royale with the other. Hear that little victory cry she does when anything remotely pleasant happens. Catch her eyes when somebody in class is being odd.
Geek out about the Weimar republic and wonton noodle soup, basil pork and imitate our American form tutor until the cows come home.

She's perfect. In every way. It kills me she can't see that. That she's so unhappy as to take it out on herself.
I want to hold her until it all goes away. I want her to wake up and feel light and free. I want her to be happy.
That's all I want.
No matter what happens, my gaze always falls back on her.
I close my eyes she's there.
Tying her hair back before doing anything.
Tucking a strand behind her ear as she works.
Laughing with a mouth full of bread at her own jokes.
Trying to count to ten in Cantonese with the utmost concentration.
Deeply analysing Sherlock Gnomes to the point I wasn't even sure if she was still joking.
Doing the most animated, loud and dramatic impressions of her 5 ft mother whilst she recounts the story of her mother putting plates away.
Chopping green onions like her life damn well depended on it.
Getting oddly heated during a rant about her tiny hands and her even tinier thumbs.

She's incredible.
If my every thought is her then maybe life isn't so cruel because at least I find solace in my mind.
She's perfect, she's so perfect.