She's a whirlwind with directile disfunction,
not knowing where she's going,
laughing all the while.
Stark.
Confidence of a king, a head full of clouds.
Three thousand boyfriends a year,
sampling them all, as if slices of cake,
apart from a special one, or two,
to give her the credit,
who she savours, and when devoured, cries at the absence.
She's a rocket with a halo of sparks, no angel by far, but then again,
far more innocent than she might first appear.
Insults bursting with love, secrets shared, a pair of explorers where there were no bounds, no limits.
A shooting star, a total embarrassment, pure energy, and a laugh with the occasional snort.
Tall and lithe, with the grace of a stumbling two year old,
Stories told, brimming with hyperbole, to entertain, to be loved.
and in those stories the line blurs with reality, and with the reality she wished would happen.
Most can't see that blurred line.
But those close to her see it with a sharpness that almost pains, but instead soothes.
A hereditary spark of childlikeness,
infectious.
And she's a crazily beautiful creature,
who's not about to slow down,
for the days, or the stars,
and thank goodness for that.
-HNR
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