Her eyes are lined in silver and when she shuts them, as though contemplating something with her entire being, sparkling dust falls on to her cheeks.

She's beautiful; the colour of coffee. Her whole face smiles. Her hair falls to her waist, in a long tumbling mess. She sits cross legged and completely at ease, like this is exactly where she'd like to be.

The dark porch behind the house lights up when she tells her stories. Her hands bundled in red gloves come together and move away in animation, like a choreography that you worry will be over too quickly.

There is so much about her that remains unsaid. She holds your attention in the palm of her hand, like she's holding something precious but extremely fragile. She doesn't let it go, and probably never will.

Her presence remains even after she's left. Her smell, that of honey, lingers on the porch until daybreak.
She's beautiful, she is.