She's the kind of girl you fall in love with, over and over again, until your heart is so full of it that your chest constricts and pain shoots through your lungs. And it's the kind of love that will slowly kill you, because you're a statue to her, a furnishing, not a person to be considered as a lover. Because you're you, steadfast and protective, and she's flighty, a butterfly that flits from beautiful thing to beautiful thing, and sometimes even to the bad things, so that sometimes she finds herself crawling back to you with broken wings. And you always heal them. Because you're in love with her and that's what you do; you heal her and you hope that she'll thank you in kisses one day instead of smiles.
And you hope that the restless soul in her finds what it's looking for, because she's down in her pretty misery and you can't lift her out of it, though you try and try and try, tugging at the ropes that she reluctantly allows to bind her to reality. But really, she's gone. Some days she doesn't come back. You worry that one day will be the last day you ever see of her. And you know this should carry you backwards, away, but it doesn't; you're drawn ever forward. Because you too are drowning in your pretty misery.