"I always wanted matching straight jackets," she said, pressing her minuscule fingertips against the bent backs of dandelions and clovers. I only managed to blink back the laughter because even though she smiled lovingly at the sky, her eyes said "sometimes-I-think-I-belong-in-one."

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, leaning back onto the blanket of sun-worn grass.

She pouts with her all ready withered twenty two year old lips, "I'm not being ridiculous."

I smile and close my eyes as her innocence laden voice rambles on about why the sky really turns black--she is adamant that it's because a monster-star swallows up all the colours then spits them back in the morning. While the other stars are only there to avert suspicion by sparkling not-brightly-enough. I laugh and shake my head as her hands wash over my arm, trying to pull me into her descriptions. She never lets me forget how wrong about her I am.

"You could at least listen to me," I can imagine her rolling her eyes at me, those strange lilac coloured eyes.

"I was," I smile smugly, "You were talking about the sky and the monster-star. I've heard that before though, doll."

"Puh-lease." I love the way she draws out her words unnecessarily. It's as if tiny valves were implanted into her voice box and every time she gets irritated one of the valves fly open. She scolds me for never listening, of course I give an appropriate head tilt and pretend that she's soured a perfectly good day.

“Do you remember how we met?”

“I pretend it didn’t happen,” she pauses, "Because I can't say that you'll ever love me."

"What about those matching straight jackets?" I ask, fighting to draw her attention from my lovestruck eyes.

"You'd look terrible in pink."

I chuckle, "You've never seen me in pink."

"I don't need to," her matter-of-fact grin almost hurts but I know she's too interested in why flowers must only come up in spring and summer.

"Daffodils would be much lovelier if they sprouted up during the winter. Wouldn't you agree?"

I could only nod in agreement as she watched each raindrop plink on her horribly white windowsill. There were times I wished I was her father, so I could tell her that she'd be all right, but I don't think I could even do it then. I don't think I'd want her to be all right. She wouldn't be the same, mysterious woman-child.

"What do you think about rainbow snapdragons? They would be downright gorgeous in the middle of a blizzard."

She looks up at the summer sun, transparent roses blooming beneath her eyelids, “It's dreadfully cold outside to-day. I think I'd rather go back to my room.”

I can't help but wonder what it's really like to be inside her mind, because surely someone with lilac eyes can't be all crazy.