Imperfection.

A set of average eyes. Ordinary body shape. Wavy hair that is ever changing, from blonde to purple to green, down past her back and back to shoulder length. Skin littered with scars. Insecure. Not a single hint of perfection, and yet I like her. I like the way her eyes shine when she talks about a fanfiction, of stories that she will one day make a reality. The way she's brave enough to stand out, even if it means she's at a higher risk of harassment. The way her poetry curls around me, her words tattooed in my mind, the way she has never, and will never lose her love for words. I love the way her inaudible songs ring in my head, the way the darkness wraps its arms around us like second skin, as if the only thing lurking in the unseen is one another. She is angry, and also sad. Broken, but whole. Every angry scar on her skin makes her so much more complete. Late night talks- as late as "late night" could be- about where we could be, what we could do. Doing mental trust falls again and again and again, and knowing that the other will always be there for us at the edge of the cliff, always the branch we grab on to in desperation, our support until we can finally pull ourselves back up onto the surface. Finding the smallest loopholes in our timezones, sharing little infinities in early mornings and late nights. Finding comfort in just knowing that the other person is listening on the other side of the line. We know that love doesn't automatically fix everything. There is nothing special about her, but she captivates me in the strangest ways, hiding away all her perfection in her shell of imperfection. Everybody wants to be perfect, strives to be perfect. She strives only to be good enough. Some see it as a weakness. I see it as a strength. She doesn't need to be perfect. She isn't and will never be perfect, and I like that. She's the imperfection in this world that strives for perfection. My imperfection.