she had pink, wobbly knees that loved kissing the gravel ground with crimson and velvet-tinted misery and the boy across the street who owned an ugly and unholy clementine sweater would run towards her with a bandaid between shaking hands. marcus never ever ever showered and the bandaids he would give to my bibby were drenched in sweat and hair gel he stole from his grandads vanity.

bibby liked the earth and dried rose petals and staying up until 2am to refill the birds feeder with food and water. she had soil underneath her chipped blue nails and her socks had santa's face all over them even though it was july.

but i liked bibby. i liked her very much; dusty eyes overflowing with ambition and fire and drive and everything i longed for. her fingertips buzzing with cosmic rays of adrenaline and mischief and marigold zest.

she had a voice that made van gogh long for his other ear just to exploit hearing every sound wave her laughter brought and made beethoven long to be young again so he could capture the brilliance of her song.

my bibby. bibby earlington. bibs.

art reincarnated. but better. way better.

tearing my heartstrings and eating my sanity. bibby. with radiance of a thousand suns and beauty only aphrodite could have bestowed upon her. bibs.