always in reverie, always surrounded by flowers and rays of sun. never waning. never without a smile. she was my one true love from the moment my eyes fell gently on her glowing face. her eyes, like emerald leaves reflected on shallow indigo ponds. it was never set in stone with her. everything was in a grainy, film-like haze. she had a way about her. she moved confidently as if she were an actress. cool, calm, collected. she was mysterious, like a glazed night sky. you knew that there were both stars and planets up there, but which were which. just as you knew there were thoughts of you and of other men as she smirked inwardly… but which were which.

would it be weird if i wrote a novel from a man’s perspective? it feels more natural. i prefer to describe women. they’re much more intricate and multi-faceted.