Your lungs collapse and rise again like a phoenix. And the breath swoops out from lips that part to let words, so beautiful, drip out. You wonder why I could find a person, a stranger, so fucking gorgeous. You’re a human being, a creator, a maker. Someone born to be whatever they imagined, an open isle waiting for a painting to be created. You can feel, think, and just be. That’s so beautiful that no matter how many definitions I pluck from a dictionary, none would be able to describe how perfect you are for just being an individual being.