She is not perfect but neither am I. We are like the trees that grow in the dirt outside my home, with their crooked lines and uneven bark, perfectly reflecting our own imperfections. It is this that makes us all beautiful, not our straight lined logic with its chiselled corners and polished edges, but the unsteady surface of our irrational, uneven thoughts and emotions.
She is subtle chaos, her beauty displayed in a changing mood. She is my love.