Beauty isn't something I see anymore.
It's something I feel.
And when I feel it
it throws off my internal rhythm.
I am out of sorts. I am out of breath.

This input of beauty goes against everything I am told to value.

Beauty is not something I own; it's a meandering caterpillar with a blotched marking on it's behind. It's a slow rolling tear on an elder's cheek. It's a fuzzy memory with murky details.

Unlike a sweater I always have in the closet, Beauty is always in season. I must choose to wrap myself inside of it.