A/N: A study of Willow in Tara's perspective. Could really be anywhere in terms of timeline. Buffy doesn't belong to me.

In her eyes, hazel eyes, I see warm browns, the color of soil, and sparkling greens that, when she's happy, look like emeralds. When she wears green earrings, they really sparkle. She shows her emotions through her eyes. When she's mad they glimmer in a threatening way, and when she's sad, devastated even, I see them looking pained. When she is happy, which is when I like her best, I see them light up and sparkle in the most beautiful way.

She is average height, but at times I see her tall and, well, willow-y. Other times, I see her small and shrinking, little. She wants to be firmly rooted, strong, but there are times when she needs an anchor. She has times when her branches stretch out all and she flourishes, feet firmly on the ground, and there are times, stormy times, when she waves her branches wildly and she limps over in pain or anger or sadness. When she shakes, inwardly and outwardly, because the wind around her will refuse to stop. I have those moments too. I am very bad at being strong, and when she is strong and I am not, she lets me spread out underneath her branches as she holds me, whispering comforting words.

When she fights, she is powerful, but not in the same powerful way she kisses and holds. She kisses gently at first, and when my hands get grabby she deepens it and presses hard in the most wonderful way. She drags her nails down my back when I thrust into her her, starting out gentle and increasing until it becomes frantic, a mess, a blur, and I see the colors of her behind my eyes, I feel them as my sensations increase. Her cries of pleasure are music, a symphony to me. Then we come back down I caress her in my arms and she glows, and I feel myself glow, too.

I fight with her sometimes, and when it's bad I see her as one color, a red. I know she loves me, and I know I love her, but in those moments I want to curl up in the bathroom and cry, and sometimes I do. But then she tearfully apologizes and she cuddles into my chest and I sing to her softly. Then she becomes a soft green and her branches sway.

Maybe she is not just green and brown and red. Maybe she is not just a tree. Perhaps she's a rainbow, every color. She is funny, she is strong, she is warm and she is cold. She is soft and hard and she fades, but she always comes back. I pray there will never be a day that she fades and never reappears. She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.

Willow Rosenberg is not a tree, no.

Willow Rosenberg is a rainbow.

A/N: Wanted to write something short with no dialogue, and I wanted to go for a different style. It's not very good, but it's an attempt. Thanks for reading!

-Lulamae