She was beautiful, in a way
you wouldn't notice
in fashion magazines,
painted cheekbones and molded breasts
just a sorcerer's artistry.

She was beautiful, for her mind,
restless and caffeinated, hot
from the friction of
unfinished sentences
destined for stillbirth on her lips.

She was beautiful, for the sparkle
in her eyes when
she chose to love me,
barely distinct from the ire
that flared quickly, faded slowly.

She was beautiful, for making others smile,
her trick of proximity a
kinetic energy, a smile
masking secret sorrows
in their shallow graves.

She was beautiful, for her soul,
ageless lady growing old,
time lapping at her features
whispering fog to her thoughts
yet her spirit lives with the gods.