She is beautiful, you know. Her tiny hands, which so delicately stroke my arms. Her thin legs, so frequently bare. Her hair, almost always in a pony tail. Her eyes, so full of life and joy. Her smile, always bright. Her heart, so pure and loving.

She washes her hair, from time to time. She comes to me, her hair still wet, and my nostrils are flooded with the most glorious scent. I die each time I inhale. My spirit ascends to heaven where it is lovingly embraced by her.

She is very smart, but I don't think she cares much about her intelligence. She cares that she is not stupid, but her intelligence means little more to her than proof that she isn't unintelligent.

She's always friendly to me. She's always kind. She loves when I arrive, and despises when I leave. I try to figure her out each time. Does she love me like I love her? If so, does she think it is possible for me to love her, or has she accepted that I am too old for her? Little girl, the difference in age means nothing to me.

I have a thought, a wonderful thought, that should bring us closer together. It will take far too much time, but worth it in the end.