Her skin is not alabaster milk that gently caresses the glass.
It is cinnamon and honey, and so, so soft and warm.
Her hair is not Auburn tawny knots that weave a great blanket flowing delicately down to tendrils of curls that adorn her ears.
It is funky navy blue, and when the mood strikes her puffed up behind her head in a great wafting abutment.
Her eyes are not the bluest blue of a clear spring day at a cloudless ocean.
They are dark, so deep brown they are almost black, and they twinkle with mischief.
She is not the woman of classic tale.
She is the woman of my story, and I love her so.