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.