She is made of beautiful flowers and unreasonable questions; she drinks the sky in her morning coffee while curiosity holds her hand. Sun dresses and over sized cardigans breathe most comfortable against her skin. Her lips are too sensitive when time calls to be bold, but much too opinionated in the rooms that should wear silence. She’s been told that the sun colors the night of her hair and people often tell her she wears a black ocean in her eyes.
Her gestures sing an undefined melody; an Etta James & Coltrane meets Norah Jones type of concert echoing in the rhythm of her walk. Fulfilled within her personality she builds a collage of her soul, almost as artsy as her bedroom floor. She bathes daily in sunshine, hoping her skin still has enough room to soak up the promise left in its rays. She dips herself in revelry, and tiptoes through life as if the ground offers refuge to a delicate secret.
She struts her kinky hair and sandy toes; wears no makeup when the sun’s fingerprints hug her cheeks. She carries her life bled to the paper beneath a yellow binding that rests in her purse. Vanilla chai, chamomille and intercessory rhymes turn the page to her nighttime prayer rituals. The ocean is her favorite scene, while the rain writes her safest song; something about the water makes her feel clean again yet speaks remnants of her past.
She finds that the words ‘I love you’ brutally escape her mouth at the right time and she can humbly and gracefully carry eternity upon her shoulders again; these are the years she feels beautiful.
When thirsty lips cried her eyes dry, she taught herself to lay happiness in hands that hold the sun. She lets forgiveness, faith and hope dance across her skin as she opens her chest to breathe the air of her King.