A million Imperfect Pieces

A stream of consciousness about an extraordinary girl

She was the kind of beautiful that was made up of a million imperfect pieces.
Like a vintage outfit, breathtaking in its tattered timeless grace.
She wore her pain like a stained glass window, and her joy in the wrinkles of her smile.
They had become a part of her. So deeply ingrained in who she was, that she no longer knew any other way to be.
She could not hide anything for the life of her. .
But God knew that I didn't want her to.
I wanted to know every single memory inked in the contours of her body
I wanted to read every word of her story illuminated in the light of her eyes.
I wanted to know who she had loved. Who she had cried for. Why she had laughed, and most of all, how I could make her love me.
She was no ordinary girl, so I had to be clever about it. I couldn't afford to make a mistake, for I could not imagine she was the type for second chances.
She was the kind of girl who need not be swept off her feet, but rather preferred to do the sweeping.
Her energy was boundless, yet she loved nothing more than to be still, and she had the ability to somehow quietly observe all that lay before her, while simultaneously making herself a part of it. The vivacity with which she dragged me to bookshops and mazes and movies I'd never have thought to see was nothing short of enchanting.
She would every so often rip me from my reality, detach me from my comfort, and sweep me up into another one of her ceaseless adventures.
To be loved by her was to be born again. Into a world of chaos and grief and beauty and breathlessness all at the same time.
I was never quite sure why she made me feel the way she did
From afar she was just another girl
Nothing much to behold
Hardly striking
At least not at first.
But as I said. Her beauty was the kind made up of a million imperfect pieces. A million jagged, broken, pieces.
Like the way she would cry hot angry tears, for hours on end, with barely an explanation.
And the way she was never wrong. About anything. Because being wrong meant that she wasn't right.
And the way that when I kissed her, I could taste the rum flavoured sorrow on her lips.
And the way that when I held her tightly, I could feel the razer sharp bones beneath her silken skin.
But, scattered across the minefield of her soul. There were shards of divinity that left me feeling giddy off something I couldn't possibly put into words.
Like the way she looked at me, with a mischievous glint in her grey green eyes.
and the way that she loved to make people smile, and laugh, so that they wouldn't cry.
And the way she would sing in the kitchen at the top of her lungs, in her tinny, sweet voice, that was always slightly off key. That was the best sound in the world to me.
An alluring sort of unstable. The sort that you feel when you spin around in circles until all the colours blurr into a giant expanse of colour and your feet can't feel themselves on the ground and you can't help but laugh and your head floats away from you and you can't think of anything except how dizzy you are.
A million imperfect pieces. And I was in love with every single one of them, in all their bewitching, tortured, mismatched glory. True beauty, I have come to realise, is exactly that. She was a hurricane, both the ocean and the storm. A beautiful disaster, bent on destroying herself. And maybe me too. But I was caught in the eye of the storm. And let me tell you, it is the most breathtaking place I've ever been.