The one with paint on her arms, with purple in her raven black hair. 

The one with a pencil behind her ear, a sketchbook in her hand, a glint in her eye

Hazel eyes, that is, framed in intense blackness. 

Eyes that change colors in the light. 

The one who plays guitar at night, 

serenading the stars, singing under a streetlight, dancing in the rain. 

The one with the spiky jacket

the one with all the scars, the ones on her heart, the ones in her flesh, the ones in her soul she stitches up over and over, day after day, tear by tear in the dark. 

The one with the rare, fleeting smile. 

It's sparkly and happy and pure, but in the blink of an eye, it's gone.

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