She is not the one. Your knees are too weak for her history, and those with no backbone will be weighed down by her self respect. When you need easy, she will never be. A fighter, with a soft smile and sharp edge. I watched her live to tell her tales when nobody thought she could. And I knew then, as I know now, she is not the one. She could never be. Certain things defy odds, but are never the same. They grow wildly, and become untamed. And you won’t know what to make of a black rose surviving n its own. She’s your long way home, the sunset horizon, the city streetlights in the evening rain. She is love in the early mornings. And she is not the one, because that’s not nearly enough. She’s the spaces that fill in what’s missing. She is everything else.