Image by primatage via FlickrShe came to me again last night, seemingly in a different form than I've ever seen her before. Hair, not long enough to really be messy, wrapped around her face, strands here and there tickling the grin that she kept sending my way, but never hiding the beauty mark at the peak of her cheek. Last night she was a brunette with mysterious eyes, floating on a wind that she seemingly controlled with her mind; a chariot that teased all who saw her pass. In her silence she told me much, as if her presence in my dream was another sign that was meant to point me in the right direction. Her stature was great though her frame small; a spring-loaded soul capable of sitting idly next to the warmth of a fire or shooting meteors from her eyes to burn holes through those who would dare to impede her path--she's the type of woman you want next to you in a fight or at a fair.
Who does she look like? No one that I can think of. When she comes I don't recall her coming in the same look, often the same shape, definitely the same soul, but not always the same look. I am convinced that should I ever cross her path (or, of course, should she ever cross mine) that I'd know her, that I'd walk up to her in some nervous, dorky manner and say the thing that would seem most strange to every other woman except for her. She'd know.
And that would begin a lifetime of getting to know each other.