v u l v a l i c i o u s
Imperfect orange skies that don't exist beyond imagination
Falliability. She said she feels like she says too much when she talks, and I think about all the times I've wanted her to talk until the sky turns orange with fresh rays of sunlight, how I'm always disappointed when, at 11pm and no later, she gets the look of sleep in her eyes and goes to bed.
It's obvious that she's not perfect. There's trouble here and there, small bits of it caught in the dark of her eyes--the eyes, the eyes, as usual. They aren't as dark as I fixed them in my mind; they are green and brown and grey-black, and it is the darkness around them that turns them into deep wading pools of mystery. She is highly imperfect. She is far too serious. I hear her sniffling in the throes of recovery from the common cold.
I fall for her imperfection when we talk.
She tells me that she has no friends, and I wonder what this means our relationship is. Are we forced compatriots? Comrades in some strange feminist fight that neither one completely understands? Can we be anything when she won't let us? Can I believe us into being something--friends, even--when she seems set against it?
I want to spill my questions onto her until the sky turns orange. I want our world to be like creamsicles and orangina. I want everything to be warm and right.
I am melting the snow with her imperfection, and it feels alright to me.