You’re beautiful. Belle Ame, French, for beautiful soul. I cautiously use the word beautiful, simply because the word holds so much power. It may be overused in it’s context, but within mine, it holds virtue.

Rain is beautiful. The smell of rain, the taste, the sound, the feeling on your skin as it seeps into the thread of your clothing. The way it collects in puddles on broken roads, or how it falls gently down the glass of a car window. A sky with rain, a cloud with tears, will remain beautiful within itself.

Art is beautiful. The stuff without a picture, without the words. The one where it’s a mass of color, a stroke of a brush, because then it allows me to feel. It allows me to create. I create my own picture, my own story as I follow the grain of the canvas, and I feel with my heart, with my fingertips, the story that belongs.

Tree’s are beautiful. The kind that reach for the sky, for the moon and the sun. The ones that surround each other, standing tall against the carnivorous weather or the beating of humans. And even if they fell down, they still lived on.

I search for beautiful people. The kinds of people who have lived a little on the dark side. Sometimes the most corrupt things, display the most beautiful things. And the boy with curly hair, and his favorite gray sweatshirt holds a past that explodes through vulnerability.

You fear vulnerability. Along with love and loneliness. And sometimes when we’re lying on my couch, our bodies sprawled on top of each other while we cling to each other, you speak your words of vulnerability and I listen. I like listening to you. Your words are beautiful. They’re deep, real, raw. They’re you. I like you.

Your voice is mellifluous. A sound that is sweet and smooth, pleasing to hear. Especially when you’re tired, and your head is buried deep in my neck with your arms tightly wrapped around me, while your fingers gently draw continuous circles on my back, and you speak against my skin. The voice that slightly mumbles but drops a few pitches in tone, the one that makes my lips curve upwards because I’m the only one that hears it, because your voice was all to me. And it’s beautiful.

Hiraeth. A home sickness for a home you can’t return to, or never was. Even if the world is sorrowful, it is still beautiful. I’m being vulnerable. I am knocking down the walls I have built so high, the ones that kept everything out, even my emotions. You are my comfort person. I depend on you more than I can recall, even if I deny that statement. When we’re touching, I feel safe. Like you would protect me if you had to, dab my tears if you needed. When we kiss, everything is forgotten and everything is relaxed. Anxiety is just a word. Your smell. It comforts me the most. Maybe because when you leave, it’s all I have except for the lingering touch of your lips. But when the touch disappears, I can still smell you. And it surrounds me for days until it drifts away too. Hiraeth is beautiful.

But it’s also intimidating.

I am attached.

And I am going to hurt once the end finds us. There is always an end. And right now, there is too much good. I’m happy, I’m content. But soon there will come another storm with more beautiful rain, but it will clog my lungs and I will drown again. And I will lose you. And you will take my vulnerability and my innocence with you. I will take your smell until it no longer lingers around me and your words of vulnerability, while they play in my head over and over, until I know them by heart. 

Every fairytale has a happy ending, except us, because we are not a fairytale. But we are a story, a story without a magical ending.