I have never been a swimmer, nor one inclined to fly, so I may not be the most reliable source to relay this truth—but you, my dearest Jazzy, are undoubtedly a swan. Grace is subjective, my lovely friend. The way you curl your tiny hand into a fist speaks of swift righteousness and unfiltered passion. What could be more elegant than valiant acts born of feeling? And though you wear no feathers, your olive skin glows, and the contrast between your brows and lashes makes your visage wholly arresting. Swans may have beaks, but your nose is just as poised—its gentle curve beautiful beyond question. And your lips, though they sometimes let loose obscenities, more often breathe life into the people you love. How admirable. How loving. I do not know if you can swim, but when you walk, your hips sway. (And yes, I hear your giant monster feet—just kidding, they’re small.) You are a fiery swan, like a candle burning steadily bright—the kind of old candle that has been lit for years, its wax molded by time and devotion. And I do not know if you are meant to fly, but I have heard you speak of your future—of friends and dreams—and you seem perpetually a millisecond away from lift-off whenever you ramble about the things that move you. I do not know what kind of swan you wish to be, but with your pink hair, I imagine you as one dusted in rose feathers, leaving glittering trails in your wake. One that nips playfully, honks without reason, lowers her head in mourning, and lifts it high in defiance. You are my swan.