the beauty in that moment right before

       the end.

right before the beginning.

right before the i love you. part and the i hate you. part

right before i’m fine

a million words are spoken in that moment before, yet none are really expressed, and they never will be.

I’ve only ever heard mentions of the after. How they react, What you decide to say, What happens.

But right before, there are about a Million possibilities Each one right at Your Fingertips Each one Still Possible

Everything is possible Right before You Choose.

“Who is that there?” I pause, my eyes locked on the mirror The face inside of it is new She is fresh with an unfamiliar warmth That bleeds from the corners Of shimmering eyes Into the blaze of a genuine smile

And there I saw beauty In each crease and crevice of her skin There was a gentle power in her hands And resplendent wisdom In shoulders That too often carried boulders But for once, Were at ease

And I recognized the blushing Of my own rose-kissed cheeks in hers As she remembered who she used to be I whisper to her “Welcome home”

A tear glides down the cheek Glistening, catching the light But if you look a bit closer The tear is a beautiful sight

Prisms glance off the drop Sparkling like a diamond A sunrise burst of vivid rays Deep jewel hues on a highland

A geometric frame Crystals in a snowy cave For who would have thought this is how A single sad teardrop behaves

It is incredible That something so depressing Has such a personality; Stunning as an angel’s blessing

Be(you)tiful.

Do this, and you couldn’t be more gorgeous.

A journal lies dormant, its secrets sealed tight, A keeper of whispers from mornings to nights. Forgotten pages, Where my younger self would write, My dreams and my fears beneath the soft Moonlight.

Clothing, outgrown and gently frayed, Hangs limply, a reminder of times relentless flow. In its threads, a former self is displayed, A narrative of who we once were in every fold.

The dishes, chipped and aged with grace, Still echo with laughter from a cherished place. They tell tales of meals in a warm embrace, Of happier times from bygone days.

The couch, with leather worn and holes burned deep, A testament to wild, crazy nights with no sleep. It holds the memories of passion, of a love so steep, Precious moments in its folds, forever to keep.

For in each mundane artifact lies, A piece of a soul, a slice of the past. A reminder of time's swift demise, And moments too precious to ever last.

Walking out to a breeze unfelt before I fall to my knees Others walking past without a second glance As I smell the memory of a first dance Sadness overcomes me Do they not see? Alone in my own nostalgia Did it ever rain at all? The sun beating down It's fading from me As it dries It’s fading faster Picking a single blade of grass This scent I hold forevermore Lost in translation among the rays But it's not him… Just a another Petrichor

Walking out to a breeze unfelt before I fall to my knees Others walking past without a second glance As I smell the memory of a first dance Sadness overcomes me Do they not see? Alone in my own nostalgia Did it ever rain at all? The sun beating down It's fading from me As it dries It’s fading faster Picking a single blade of grass This scent I hold forevermore Lost in translation among the rays But it's not him… Just a another Petrichor

effulgence indulgence I’ll be your wallflower You be my quotidian piece.

I knew a boy who was an artist He drew my freckles like stars My curls like silk My eyes like windowpanes To his world He loved me until there was nothing left But ashes and a smoking paintbrush.

They stand at the ready Capable of dispensing such grace Consensually spilling So many secrets

Clear and to the point A fount of notion, knowledge, And communication Retention

So hard-headed Yet so transparent Always leaving A lasting impression

At once hard to hold And easy to embrace Often exhausting Their partners Before exhausting Themselves

Not as luxuriantly elegant In appearance As their great-grandfathers But far more self-reliant

Feather-light While, bold and persistent In legacy Instilling a sense of accomplishment

Though they are mostly forgotten In this digital age I still see the beauty In my ball-point pens

Daffodils and funny hats, Cawl and road signs with more consonants than vowels How does one pronounce ‘hyfryd’? Why does it not sound remotely like what it means? Beautiful, A word I would use to describe your country And the Welsh people Beautiful. The sunsets over St Bride’s Bay, The endless fields of golden rapeseed, The gentle hills dotted with sheep, Ancient hedgerows with centuries of legends and stories to tell. How does one explain?

Hiraeth.