You are a painter. You are a baker. You read chapter books that are too old for you while drinking cups of coffee too strong for you. You are growing up too fast. You paint a mask of what you think is perfection on your face yet I see more beauty in your cheeks still holding baby fat, the freckles spattering your nose, and your bright, unlined, emerald eyes. You dig your sharp elbows into my ribs and swing your size 8 feet (yes, I know they're bigger than mine) swiftly at my head. You scream, roll your eyes, stomp away and I love you even more. You filled two years of your life throwing quarters in fountains, chasing shooting stars, blowing out candles and kissing clocks all with the same wish. Your wish came true. You dream about wolves and teacups and meadows and clocks. You talk in your sleep. You have a straightener and a curling iron in your drawer. You wear bows in your hair and boots on your feet. No one understands you. You are always right. I don't know what I'm talking about. If that's so, you are not a singer. You are not a dreamer. You are not confused. You are not searching. You are not beautiful. But I do. And you are.
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