Vanilla. The bitter scent of a coffeehouse

mixed with sweet beautiful intelligence;

perfection; spontaneity.

Words run on the pages, joy can be found

in even the smallest of things.

Grounded; confident.

The white of innocence, not a single stain,

multicolored beige brings professionalism

in all its forms.

Life is a game of who knows who.

It's impossible not to know her.

Abstract strings are pulled and tugged

until even the sturdiest of structures fall,

leaving the remnants on the ground to be

picked up one by one.

A sole painting filled with the reds of anger,

of love. The black and white stark

against the murkiness. Even the gold,

highlighting what went missing.

One. They're still one. A little girl,

the blond bundles pulled into two

on the top of her head, seeing the world

from her father's eyes.

Childish; just like he was,

once upon a time.

Just like he was, when those eyes focused

on the tough blue of denim, when

a fight was never an argument,

it was a game.

Who is right, who is wrong,

none of that matters if one never

backs down. She would never

back down.

She was never spontaneous.

She was a planner. Always one

to hold a grudge, always one

to win.

She was first. First

kiss, first love,

first date.

Her hair fell down on her shoulders

in curls, down in spirals

bringing him down as he fell.

He fell hard, looping back around

to the other side. Choosing jeans

over a painting. Choosing the chaos

over the calm. Choosing the calm

of a fight over nothing at all.

It was with her

that he'd find his love story.