The most beautiful among us all seem to be slightly broken, women especially. The ones worth knowing are beyond repair. She’ll always be slightly off centered. A clock, never set perfectly, but you knew could still sing beautifully. And fools we are for attempting to fix her. Just read her, learn her, love her. Don’t try to make sense of her past, or dare predict her future. Who she was, is not who she is, and is certainly not who she would be. You’re not meant to understand her entirely. Because she’s not sure who she is exactly. Let her sing her song. Watch her dance wildly to it. It’s her time. Repairing that would only break her heart. And I’d rather be ripped apart from her than rip a part from her.