“We need to find a pink bottle.”, she said. I hope we find it after an intentionally long search, so that I can look at her wandering in the store, I thought. We didn’t find the pink bottle, I’ll take her to the store again, and look at her again.

Her dainty femininity. Since ancient times, fetching water and carrying it was the role of the woman. I think they love their water bottles because of this unconscious impulse informed by blood memory. It’s in their DNA. And the pink is— well— “it’s pink.”

I’m drawn to think of primal instincts during the day. When I see her cook, clean after herself. When I see her showing me pets. When I see her do her self-care routines. When I see her playing with babies on the streets, forgetting everything she has on her mind. It’s so passionately feminine. 

At no other time do I feel my masculine is exalted to higher degree than when I see her dancing in her divine femininity. Nature loves balance.

It’s healing. She heals with her gaze. She heals with her touch. She heals with her words, seldom, stern— but healing words.

Her anger is the most attractive trait. Like a chaotic ocean she crashes against her firm rock. 

I see her then, raging. Her beauty, her angelic and demoniacal beauty, all at once.

The yin to my yang.

My woman.