She holds her hair up with only two chopsticks and a bobby pin.

Think Atlas. Think shoulders.

When your sadness starts to feast, she carries the light down from the mountain and hands it to you, tells you to set it on fire.

Think Prometheus. Think savior.
On Sunday, she steps out of the shower and you don’t think you’ve ever seen anything more beautiful than the way she walks towards you with a towel on her head, water clinging to her like there is nowhere else it would rather be.

Think Aphrodite. Think sea foam.

You love her like mythology.
You love her like the impossible stories of Gods and monsters.


When she sings, think fairies.

Think mermaids. Think hymns.


She is the face of the river that Narcissus fell in love with, confusing hers for his own.


She is Medusa’s fury,
Athena’s strength,
Achelois’ healing.

You are kissing her in a crowded restaurant and it feels like praying.
You are watching her instead of the meteor shower and you don’t even notice. 

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