From a dream

She doesn’t have to strain herself too much these days. She just is. How is she, you might ask? It’s hard to say, really. On the surface she is pretty, gracious, and considerate. Her first noticeable feature, which will speak to you long before she will, is the simple symmetry of her face. Everything about its design is elegant. Decorated by the fiery and uncharacteristic eyebrows are her softest eyes, like a slumbering dwarf star girded by fiery meteor showers. Her eyelids look like they must be very heavy and inclined towards sleep, and she doesn’t strain herself to keep them open wide. Though, it is as if their purpose is to gaze, to see through the flimsy charades of her counterparts and into their spirit. These eyes are not greedy-- they are neither searching for treasures nor carried away by pleasures. They are a faithful and humble servant to their master, her mind; and they stretch out to her lover when her mind is no longer relevant, joining the two hearts together, miraculously rushing the blood from one to the other. The ample width between her eyes allows a spacious feeling that calms you before her best feature claims you as it draws your eyes gently towards the center. This nose I speak of arches outward into a rounded tip and if you look straight ahead the bridge of it, along with the cartilage of her well-proportioned nostrils, resembles the Hindu temples at Bhubaneswar. You can imagine her breath circulating in concentric circles within these rounded chambers, effortlessly chugging up the oxygen necessary to keep her lamp lit. And how bright it shines, when southward her lips are stretched by the power of an effervescent smile... and another, and another. When her bow is strung by the might of her heart, and her words are let flying like magical arrows, they are known to heal as they strike instead of causing damage. Sometimes her nervousness shows, but what more fertile grounds than the furrows of her forehead to plant seeds of comfort and security. Sometimes she is tired, but what greater bags to fill with the fruits of loving labor than those which form under her eyes when she is exhausted, when even the perfection of this face of hers shows the signs of wear and tears... and tear? If I have been the destroyer, cannot I also be the creator? Can’t my sun evaporate the tears that the clouds of my sky have let loose. I love this face. I adore it. Can’t I have this face forever?