he was beautiful,
but not in the ways we covet so often.

he did not have hair i could run my fingers through
or soft skin to touch;
his eyes sat deep under a too-thick brow,
his hair was a tangled mess,
and his face was rough as concrete.
he was not outgoing and eloquent,
nor was he cultured—

but he was beautiful
in the way a whisper threads through air
in the way a spider dances
in the way one stands among ruins
and breathes softer,
in awe of the quiet power of the place,
as if a gasp would shatter the stones

he was beautiful
like the red flush of shame,
in the way rough terrain tells more intimate stories
than a smooth road,
in the way thunderstorms are
a thousand times more glorious
than the sunshine,
in the way the hoarseness in your throat
is triumphant after losing your voice
to screams of joy

...he was beautiful because his was
a purposeful ugliness

he was beautiful
because he tried so hard not to be