sneakers rubbed raw and loose at the back heal with rumpled dirty shoelaces
-from wear though not the elements cause her shoes are always tied.
slightly high water pants and crazy t-shirts that department stores infer
only boys should wear from their department divisions
Hair that goes uncombed but washed for weeks on end that gives the impression
of an over-sugared kid that one day might get into trouble comparable to that of a
poor seventies hippie that somehow managed to get back to the present with a decent job and a college degree.
and there's that fucking Monroe, that people pierce their body for but that never tuns out quite perfect
that's placed perfectly-perfectly natural-and makes her look sort of french, which she insists she is
yet, relents soon after, in the wake of admitting she knows no french anyways (save a few scattered words)
keeping to herself her very apparent uncaring of what 'she is' in comparison to the rest of the world
She plays the drums and I've never heard her, but I'm more confident now then ever-since seeing her air drum one friday night when we decided to stay in and get far-out drunk-that she's probably brilliant at it.
I mean if she knew she was no good why would she waste her time studying jazz and explain to TSA agents that while a drum stick could be used as a weapon, she is only a music student and has no intentions of doing so.
and she's brilliant at more things than the drums and I care for her in so many ways sometimes I forget that we only first spoke to one another on my last birthday-the second of the ninth month- and it's only the second month of the next year now. She's a perfectly acceptable partner in crime and we've already agreed that, although it would be conveniently otherwise, we need a dependable third party to bail us out of jail because if she lands herself there there is no reason to believe I'd be anywhere else but in the slammer with her-you know it's strange.
but she may never read this so I won't waste the time to say
I love her here.
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