She Was the Refraction the World Could Never Refract
She was not light.
but the division of it
the sacred fracture
that allowed color to be born.
The kind of beauty
that refused to settle into one shape,
one hue.
one truth.
She shimmered, not for attention,
but because stillness could not contain her.
Even silence
found itself prismatic in her presence,
split into unspoken shades,
of longing,
memory,
and awe.
She did not walk,
she undulated, like something between air and thought,
never touching the ground,
yet reshaping it.
She was not a jewel,
but the echo of one...
that once existed
in the sky’s first breath.
When people looked at her,
they did not see her,
only the parts of themselves
they had forgotten how to feel.
The rain bent toward her
as if asking to remember
what it meant
to fall softly.
And mirrors,
when faced with her shimmer,
cracked not from force
but reverence.
She wasn’t hidden,
only too luminous
to be held by anything
that hadn’t first learned
how to ache beautifully.
.
.
.
The world could only name her
in metaphors,
because reality
had never birthed
something so
reflected, reflecting,
and untouchably
real.