She seems to shine so that even the light is fooled. She seems to glow so that even the moon is jealous. All the empty nights, all the covetous dreams, they bear witness to her skin as if she was the answer. The air crowds around her, the sky drops to its knees. Every eye is held open wide, full of reverent wonder.
Beauty is boundless and effortlessly declarative. It makes its careless claims upon the world without hesitance or expectation. It is the utility of emphasis, the banner of this one over that. It is the argument of fit rather than of form, of grace rather than of grandiosity. She walks in beauty, and we so are bound to make mistakes.
There is that vibrant radiance, there is that cache in her sway. There is that kindness that feeds the eyes their favor, that balance that cures the mind of its sloth. I stare with untoward intensity, despite manners or means. She is like the moon sliding along the waters. She is like wings catching the wind. The world is lit somehow by her stride, and I watch as sparks trail and fires stoke. For a moment I let my senses fool me, somehow everything at once set right.