Beauty is a lot of things.
It’s in a lover’s smile,
the glint of happiness in their eyes.
It’s in a baby’s laugh —
the innocence of being amused
by something we see as mundane.
It’s the fragile whisper
of a person’s last breath,
a final sigh,
a lifetime gone in a moment.
It’s an animal curled against you,
trusting you enough to sleep —
to dream —
because it knows you’ll keep it safe.
It’s the first hello
and the last goodbye,
the way the sun rises over the world,
and sets beneath it again.
It’s in the stars, glistening in defiance,
never asking how long they’ll burn —
just burning bright
all the same.
Beauty is the moon in all her majesty,
the gentle and wild turning of the seasons,
and the quiet ache
that lives between them.
It’s a child drifting to sleep,
still waiting for Santa,
still filled with hope and belief,
not yet tainted
by the cruelty of this world.
It’s a soft “I love you” for no reason,
a hand reaching for another
just because it wants to be close.
It’s in the quiet snores — or the loud ones —
of the warm body beside you.
It’s the sound of rain against the window,
a warm breeze on a summer day.
It’s the kind of peace
that doesn’t ask to stay,
but lingers gladly anyway.
Beauty lies in so much —
in the fragile,
the fleeting,
the perfectly ordinary things
that make us remember
what it means
to be alive.
Oct 29, 2025
Oct 29, 2025 at 11:54 PM UTC
Beauty is a lot of things.
It’s in a lover’s smile,
the glint of happiness in their eyes.
It’s in a baby’s laugh —
the innocence of being amused
by something we see as mundane.
It’s the fragile whisper
of a person’s last breath,
a final sigh,
a lifetime gone in a moment.
It’s an animal curled against you,
trusting you enough to sleep —
to dream —
because it knows you’ll keep it safe.
It’s the first hello
and the last goodbye,
the way the sun rises over the world,
and sets beneath it again.
It’s in the stars, glistening in defiance,
never asking how long they’ll burn —
just burning bright
all the same.
Beauty is the moon in all her majesty,
the gentle and wild turning of the seasons,
and the quiet ache
that lives between them.
It’s a child drifting to sleep,
still waiting for Santa,
still filled with hope and belief,
not yet tainted
by the cruelty of this world.
It’s a soft “I love you” for no reason,
a hand reaching for another
just because it wants to be close.
It’s in the quiet snores — or the loud ones —
of the warm body beside you.
It’s the sound of rain against the window,
a warm breeze on a summer day.
It’s the kind of peace
that doesn’t ask to stay,
but lingers gladly anyway.
Beauty lies in so much —
in the fragile,
the fleeting,
the perfectly ordinary things
that make us remember
what it means
to be alive.
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