She’s not perfect; not even ideal, but I want to know her. I want to wrap myself up in her heat; work her through my hands until I know the curves of her elbows, and the texture of the skin at the back of her neck just behind the ears. I want to whisper into her, and watch her grow under my wind. I will give names to the flecks in her eyes, and recognize the distinctive curl of each hair; map her freckles as if they are constellations, and study their movement across seasons. Then, I will tread lightly through her garden, and lay in the soil until I am an Acacia.