Beauty is a Fragile Gift

What is beautiful is vulnerable.
The beauty of vulnerability grants protection.

What is beautiful beckons with a silent boast,

Is loud in a graceful way.

It isn't like Beauty to be one with the whole. 

She knows that her truest form is in her scarcity. 

Her brilliance where brilliance cannot be found.

And she remembers when she was invisible, undetectable, underground.

She remembers the time it took for her confidence to grow,

The busybodies who took a glance, and didn't cut her down.

It is the very shell she used to hide in that feeds her spirit everyday.

What is beautiful knows when it's time to bloom.

It's been six years since I last set foot here. Five since I've missed it. It's hard to remember sometimes, what your hands felt like. The ripples of time start to bleed together after a while. I can't quite remember which alternate universe it was where things turned out okay.

But I do know that everything seems so much further now. Each stride is heavier, each goal is more difficult to reach. So before I leave this place for the last time, I need you to understand something.

I hate you.

In time, in space.
In mem'ries of place.
This beautiful now
concedes with grace.

Nothing will last
that lives in the past
But the ghosts and the voices
whose lines you cast.

A fearful mind will leap into a lover's arms and take the innocent figure of the child that lurks inside. It will put off thinking, feeling, living, for the evasion it finds in play.

When fearing people love fearing people, it is the fear that acts between them, the fear that does the loving. And the fear that does the fighting, the questioning, the hiding and the lying. Until love becomes malevolent game - a war you can't retreat from.

We have nothing to fear but fear itself. For fear is enough to be afraid of.

I can almost see you. Faded, but the colors remain. Muffled, but all the meaning you meant to give me is still living there in the stone, the moss.

And in the shadows you weep, but not quietly. The shadows here are loudest when these human eyes are empty, gasping for the daylight they left at the door.

What I remember of you lies in the fields between where we watched each other. The blossoms in the spring, the leaves in the fall. And your eyes in fixation as Polaris in the sky.

Ignition. Sun. I feel the warmth of the morning against my face, in seclusion, time comes to a halt. The tranquility of the early day gives a sense of peace as the busy streets and the lights of the night before fade away.

Slow. Stop. In the stillness of my solitude, I notice beauties that others, in their haste, miss in oblivion. The sounds, smells, and sensations of the town centre become a part of me, I am one...

alone, but ALIVE, I take to the day.

Infinite is the sky. And as much as your mind would try to reach its furthest depths, your consciousness deters you.

Even now, as we spew more photons into the abyss, they grow lonelier and further apart. And they'll continue indefinitely. As any force of independence is destined never to fall out of being.

but these photons between us. The ones that hit our retinas and warm the pores in our faces and bathe in our subconsciousness. These will never be lonely. And I hope that the infinite sky of night never steals these memories. They belong to you. Not as baggage, but as sustenance.