Dew

She was a very sentimental girl; her eyes were always clouded over with visions of nostalgia. I would drink in her glowing pink aura as she would lounge nonchalantly on the wrought iron, rusting chair on the front patio and smile. The sun would act as a halo around her crooked profile and make her appear an angel descended from heaven. She was always so quiet, and when she did talk, not one word would be slurred. For her voice was clear and rhythmic. She had a cat. He was black with sand coloured socks and whenever she sat he would act as a blanket, sprawling his thin limbs and plump body over her bony lap.  He never made an account to lie on my lap, however I did not mind as I was allergic to his long Parisian fur. When she would drink her jaw line would deepen into a definition of dark shadow, and I would further wonder how someone could hold such an eminent beauty. I remember that she would always try and make it her first priority to maintain groomed, right up to the pointing edge of perfection. Even on lazy Sundays her hair would remain wonderfully quaffed and lipstick finely blotted on the handkerchief she would wrap around her deer like wrist. Only on days of hysteria would I ever experience the graceful falling of hairs upon her flushing cheeks and witness the heavy weight of tears outlining her upturned pout. Still, even then I would find her incandescently striking.

This, teamed with the photo of my friend makes ture irony.

Original wording.