Your crooked ill groomed nails, tell me tales of your anxiety. I've seen your hair less messier than your life at times. I have also seen the crescents more than the flattened plains of your lips , no matter how harsh the weather might have been to you. Your thoughts most of the times are mitochondria. While few instances they are parasitic, feeding and sucking out the little courage when you had to do new things. Nevermind, you are the one who laughs at me before life itself mocks. Like a frenemy letting me fall, learn and grow. I'm not bragging. But, I shall write to you more often, so that you know how imperfectly adorable you are which you're unaware of.