Liminal Wordsmith

She doesn’t usually wear lipstick. Perhaps it’s because she knows she doesn’t need it. Beauty has been stitched into her from the very beginning. More likely though, it’s because she hates attention. When the light bends toward her, she shifts away. Some call it modesty, others shyness. I just call it her.

But today, she painted her lips with a rose stain. Simple. Quiet. A whisper of color, as if the morning itself had leaned down and kissed her mouth. And before I could even look at her, she was apologizing. “I didn’t mean to put this much on,” she said. “I don’t know why I chose this morning. I probably shouldn’t have.” Her hair fell into her face as she rushed to gather her things. I reached out, tucking the loose strands behind her ear, and there she was, glowing, untouchably beautiful. How could she not know?

Her beauty is not in the tint she wears, but in the places she cannot hide. It’s in the curve of her laughter, in the hush of her presence, in the way her kindness lingers long after she has left the room. She is most radiant when she is unaware of herself, when she is simply being. The world sees only a glimpse. I see the whole of her, the beauty she doubts, the beauty she buries, the beauty she cannot erase.

And so, I will keep saying it until it sinks into her bones. She is beauty without effort, beauty without disguise. She deserves to be seen, wholly and endlessly, for what she is, light in human form, my forever proof that the world still makes miracles.