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About Grace

She was long and lean and her hair flooded down her back in locks of copper waves. Her skin so fair and tender it glistened translucent in the afternoon light. Her lips gently curved in a warm welcome, her nose and cheeks dappled in golden brown freckles. It was her eyes though, the way they enveloped you - like being engulfed in a blanket of sunlight with the tender spring grass pressing against your flesh. People always say, "she never speaks" and, yet, she is always whispering away my sea of pain and sorrow as she strides past me.

He was boisterous and full. His skin wrapped in the darkness of midnight, his eyes shone like stars that would never burn out. His body consumed the room and his presence demanded your attention. But it wasn't foreboding or threatening. In fact, it always surprised me that all I ever felt was a gentle drawing inward. He never looked through you, it was always only ever into you in a way that was surprisingly comforting. It felt like your gaping wounds and oozing hurts were being tended to - extracted, mended. I never touched him and yet he always made me feel like I was ten again, floating on the pond's surface with the sun radiating on my skin with not a worry in the world.

They were everything I never thought they would be. They chose all the ways I never imagined they would choose. They did everything backwards and upside down and contrary to our minds. They were beauty and dignity, joy and hope, ease and rest.


Looking for the T[ea]

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