Beauty is when he whispers my name, his soft blue-black hair tousled
about his face.
Beauty is when he touches me, his almost-lavender eyes dark with
pain, light with love, deep with images of futures not yet there.
Beauty is when his eyes grow distant behind the cold crystal of his
glasses, unseeing yet seeing.
Beauty is when he smiles, touchingly, softly, privately so none see
him.
Beauty is when he glares, his glasses protecting the victim from the
intensity of his gaze.
Beauty is when he laughs, so rare, so infrequent, like pattering
drops of rain on the roof, the sound purer than anything heard before.
Beauty is when he get up, gets dressed, so formal, so casual.
Beauty is when he speaks, his tone hushed, his voice calm no matter
what the circumstances.
Beauty is when he is silent, when he is commanding, when he is harsh.
Beauty is when he kills.
He is beauty.