She looked so good in black and red. Other colors matched her personality well but nothing ever fit her as well as a torn up t-shirt and glossy red lipstick smeared across her sun-kissed lips.

The way her beautiful strawberry-colored hair would fall down over the back of her old t-shirts made me smile and think back to the days where she didn't really take care of her hair at all, yet it still fell beautifully off her shoulders and down to where her shirt would meet the waistband of her skinny jeans.

I fell in love with her bleached sneakers and her poorly painted nails and all of her clothes and how she always seemed to mismatch them, and her room and everything in it.

Her slim figure would always slink around on the corners of every wall - she never liked to be the center of attention- and she still doesn't.

I've kissed her before and I still consider myself the luckiest person in the world for it. Anyone who has should consider themselves lucky.

Her lips are always chapped but the sound that comes out of them is the most beautiful thing, rough and loud like mountains on a windy day, or grass whistling due to a crisp autumn breeze.

She has this amazing entity about her; she always seems so sad but her eyes have this constant gleam that assures everyone else that she is perfectly okay.

She cries a lot but at beautiful things, like old corny movies and TV shows. She writes beautiful poetry about sad drunken boys with brown hair and bleak green eyes - one in particular - words flowing freely from the tips of her poorly painted fingernails down to the ball-point tip of her pen.

I remember one summer day we sat in the deepest confinements of her room as she hesitantly handed me her poetry book and the words always seem to flow beautifully for her.

I just wish mine would do the same.