She was beautiful.
The way her hair twisted
and fell across rose-stained cheeks,
like soft, dark smoke, curling
over a pale, spring morning.
Her lips were pink and parted
in an invitation.
The way she hid her eyes halfway
beneath blushful, batting lashes
and sang her words like a lullaby.
She moved like the wind,
alternatingly cool and coy.
And he thought, as he watched her,
as we all hope to, in our time,
that this was perhaps the missing piece
of him, come home at last to rest.
– s. Clark