She stands there, brushing her hair an act so ordinary it would pass unnoticed by most. Yet in her, even the mundane becomes divine. The brush glides through strands of soft pink, each motion deliberate, gentle, as if she were taming the wind itself. I watch her in silence, caught in the gravity of her presence.
Her large brown eyes catch the light, turning it to something holy. Her eyeliner wings outward with perfect precision, tracing the natural curve of her eyes. Its shade dark, yet cosmic seems to hold the shimmer of distant galaxies. Beneath her right eye rests a single mole, and scattered across her face are others, tiny celestial bodies forming a constellation not unlike Aries flipped ninety degrees to the left. I wonder if sheβs ever noticed, this quiet miracle of starlight drawn upon her skin. Fitting, for someone who seems nothing short of sacred.
She begins to braid her hair, fingers weaving order into beauty, two neat braids falling against her cheeks. Even as she moves out of view, my eyes chase her reflection in the white tiles behind her. Her silhouette alone carries grace an echo of perfection itself. I lie there, still. Watching. Wondering if she knows the extent of what I feel.
She knows I love her, yes but does she know how deeply? Does she know that when I see her, my chest feels weightless, my heart caught between awe and surrender? In her presence, I am suspended between worship and longing. When my time comes, I think, whatever remains of me dust, ash, soil will remember this love. It will carry traces of her warmth, her light, her quiet divinity. And perhaps, somewhere, somehow, it will pass that love onward. Into flowers, into air, into someone elseβs heartbeat. All because she once stood there, brushing her hair.
