You asked her to describe herself. I can tell you.

She is daisy petals falling and the slipping on a wet leaf in autumn and putting on pajama pants and cotton candy as it melts and stepping into sunlight in the morning.

You are the cold slap of hitting the water and running your fingers through your hair when you wake up and taking a sip of too-hot tea and the feeling when you ski faster than you should and the brush of your pencil when it's at the softest, darkest angle that makes everything beautiful.

I am waking up warm in the middle of the night and the secret brush of fingers and lighting that strikes too close for comfort and cold cement under bare feet while it rains and the soft surreality of hair underwater.