I'm a firm believer that you never truly stop loving your first  true love. 

My first true love, she was beautiful. 

She was beautiful after she had danced under the stars and the moon, finally letting herself be free. 

She was beautiful with wind blown hair and sparkling,
mirth filled eyes as we laughed at some joke. 

She was beautiful in the way she walked,
with the sassy swing of her hips. 

She was beautiful in the way she talked,
the sound of her voice was like music to my ears. 

She was beautiful in the way she smiled, the genuine smile that she barely showed anyone,
the one that she said only I ever noticed wasn't forced. 

She was beautiful in the way she laughed,
that hearty laugh that made me so happy. 

She was beautiful in the way she cared for everyone important to her, even if it meant sacrificing her own happiness. 

She was beautiful in the way she cried, because when she cried in my arms,
it meant she trusted me enough to see her like that. 

She was beautiful in the way she smelled, her scent was sweet, something I could only describe as the source of my peace. 

She was beautiful, in the way she loved wholeheartedly,
even if I never truly noticed it for my own foolishness. 

And she is beautiful as she tries to fight the illness that threatens to take her life, even if the only reason she decided to live, was for others.




©Words of a withering soul