Beauty you are a broken glass hiding in the still-clear dish-water.
You are the smell of banana bread at two in the morning and the quiet breathing of a house that sleeps.
You are the hypnotic movement of a choral song that needs no singing along.
You are curls uncombed and covers unkempt; and the cold snap of entereing a room whose windows have been open all day.
You are my beloved sister sleeping soundly away.
You are the quiet margin of wake at the end.
Beauty, it's you who keeps me up tonight, softly rejoicing Your Hands upon my day.
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