I'd Rather Wake Up Beside You
They say home is where the heart is. If that is true, then my home stands five-foot-eight. She has radiant brown hair and her windows to her soul are a devastating shade of blue with artistic strokes of green that swallow her pupils of unfathomable depth. You can lose yourself in them if you really tried. My home is elusive, relentless, and wildly misunderstood. She, like me, is broken, and her fragmented parts make me whole. She is torn and a mess, such a beautiful mess. She pushes me away and pulls me in and never knows how delicate her chaos is. She always seems within reach, yet she is always an inch too far. She fears everything and nothing. Her tempting appearance clashes with her stern demeanor. She is endless grace masked by unyielding assertiveness. Her hardships left her a little rough around the edges, but beneath her surface, she is gooey like molten glass. She walks the aisle with her demons, but she is functioning. She is hay in a needle stack. She prefers to blend in, but she is all I see. She is a walking contradiction, and I feel incompetent with words when I attempt to describe her. But, to me, she is indescribable. She needs to be experienced; she is an experience.