And when you see her, you will feel the inexplicable urge to cry, all of your normally negligible impulses and earthen desires suddenly begging for a course of path through her veins splintering into capillaries, for what she lacks in perfection she makes up for in intentionally blurred photographs and dripping hair. The entire situation is absurd when not viewed through contextual lenses, and it is not mitigated by anything, especially not the myth of a love of which you believe is conditional. But whatever terms you have tattooed upon yourself so far, well, they all seem to fall away when you see her, they all seem to fall perfectly in place, in the dark recesses of the broken ugly things that don’t seem to belong with the shattered inimitable beauty that she seems to radiate and which seeps into your skin to beat like a second wave, a second heartbeat replacing the void which you never knew existed until now. You, all your broken bits of concrete and torn up pieces of imagination, fall so perfectly into place. You could die if you touched her - and such histrionics seem more suited towards second-rate pale cheap imitations of what is perceived as tasteful literature - but you would touch and die anyway. Indefinitely, forever.