She was everything and more. She was the glittering diamond to my uncut quartz, the black notes racing through the mediocre of my thin, uncertain lines. She loved the things I loved, and she showed me how good someone could truly be at those things. There was something magnetic about her, something endearing and gorgeous and lovely and rare. It seemed she excelled at everything lucky enough to capture her attention, whether it be the words that lived for the touch of her mind or the music that flickered and danced between her fingers or the people, drawn like dust-painted moths to the lure of the promise of something special, each with their damaged, cracked facades crying to be smoothed and softened. She was a classical, wonderful beauty, fitting to the shimmer that sung beneath her skin, and she made me smile and laugh and forget the ghosts and snap and hide behind the shadows all at once. I didn't totally understand her, but what I saw of her I adored.
