Violet is the color my love paints on the canvas of my heart. It's the color that stains my life like that of the glass in places of worship. How fitting, seeing how I near worship her. Her and her dresses, orange hair, fruity drinks, and all. There's nothing more I'd want to look at, to touch and smell and hear.
People will be bigots, and not accept us. They will be missing the way our adoration shines brighter than anything they'd want us to believe. They will miss the beauty that she is with a rainbow painted on her cheek and a flag in hand twirling through the streets once a year.
This is not a love story. This is not a romance to come back to throughout the generations, nor one that will be discussed in school as an example of a literary masterpiece. This is simply showing how I see her, with my love goggles on, obscuring everything else around me.
Violet is the color she was wearing the first time I ever saw her, running down the sidewalk as fast as she could in her obnoxiously pink heels. From that point on, I've never (and never will) seen a more imperfectly flawless person. It's my privilege to love her, and little more than a miracle she loves me back.
