Her skin is crinkled with innocence, shining like the moon, with light pale and reflected, unoriginal, but so captivating. The craters make themselves a part of her, the dents complimenting her perfection, and she stands strong, still.
She is magnificent in her regality. She is the moon and she is light. She is paralysed in her awe- her admiration, her terror- but she says nothing. She watches you, her skin glowing faintly with borrowed light and quivering with reserved contempt, but says nothing. She cannot say anything- she is paralysed, frozen, and she moves slowly, like streaks of silver in the night sky.
She is the moon and you are a lycanthrope.
Her eyes are crystal, sparkling water, brimming with translucence and unshed tears. Her eyes are wave after wave of pale, clear blue. They look at her eyes and see reflected sunlight and pretty little smiles, and they revel in this façade of perfection before searching for something deeper, more real. For in this clarity, how could there possibly be enigma?
You look into her eyes and see beyond the perfection. You look beyond and see, in the water, the iridescent bubbles, a symbol of all she has forsaken. You think you see beauty there- real, sad beauty.
And she looks at you with her eyes, full of appreciation and appraisal and disapproval. Her eyes are a canvas, a symphony of constantly-changing emotions, a blend that only water can create.
You are up to your knees in it and there is no other place you would rather be.
Her hair is a black waterfall, rich, monochrome and absorbent, with not a hint of colour. It is breathtaking, how it falls to her back, slowly and easily, just like she does when she falls apart. And it is easy to see how fragile she is by the way her face is almost pallid in comparison to her hair, to the bleeding black. It is easy to see how fragile she is from the casual precision of it all.
Yet she stands straight, like Artemis the Hunter. She stays strong.
Her lips are ice, firm and solid, ice which melts at the slightest indication of heat. And soon the ice is water, desperate and flowing, with no destination.
Sometimes, when you kiss her and can feel the cold solid pushing against you, your breath forming water droplets on her face, you watch her crumbling, melting.
And she constantly fluctuates from state to state, and you realise that she has no idea who she is.
She is a morpher, a pretender, and you go along for the ride.
You hear her voice hitch, and you embrace it- the innocent, confused voice and the rush of words soaking you like a strong wave. The clarity of her words, the rise and fall of her anxiety. They are beautiful.
You kiss her to stop her and when you pull away slowly from her, your eyes stare pleadingly at you from her face as you step away from the mirror.
"I'll come back later, love," you say, closing the wardrobe door gently.