her touch was rough and unforgiving. the burn of fire hence, the sting of ice. a ballerina gliding along the calloused parchment of her journal- and with that i knew that she was beautiful.
her soul and poetry like a fairy and his bunny so brooding and enchanting. she was the symbol of melancholy and grace, epitome of the beauty of autumn euphoria and chills of a cold winter night spent in halls with loud cheers and lonely slumber.
a beautiful disaster, they said lovely, i replied.