Beauty does not announce itself.
It arrives the way warmth does —
slowly,
then all at once.
Ravishing.
Resplendent.
Long and sultry in the afternoon light.
It is not the mirror that decides.
It is the air around a thing
when it moves
just right.
Gossamer and alluring —
contoured by something
older than intention.
Très belle.
Très jolie.
Words that dissolve
before they land.
Because real beauty
is not a word.
It is the way a room shifts
when something luminous
enters it.
Shimmering.
Breathtaking.
Slim and lean against the dusk.
Voluptuous in its stillness.
Sensuous in its refusal
to explain itself.
Haunting beauty
does not ask to be seen.
It simply is.
Radiant.
Resplendent.
Flawless in the only way that matters —
it makes you forget
you were looking
for something else.
"This poetry was created by DiscoPrincess — Royalty of the Night"
darkprincess
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