I am not talking about looks.

where do you suppose all of the beautiful people go when the night starts settling into it’s deep thoughtful blue? all those faces with their strong smiles, with their clothes that fit… maybe were even hand woven… the ones who look like they were grown from the earth. with their clean finger nails and hair that looks like it’s been tossed in a bramble as they were out there searching for home. and those faces — tailored smiles — sturdy steps, sturdy stance, and their skirts and their hot cups of tea. when they leave their long days, and they step through their doors — who do you suppose it is that they choose to be?
Are they in upstairs rooms, rubbing their faces with the hollow and heels of their hands? do they hold on to each other or father or mother when they’ve done all the day once had planned. They aren’t about — I know that — unless their long day has run over to night, they are somewhere alone or cross legged with friends, but they are secretly praying for light.
do their eyes hurt like mine when I stare for too long, do their smiles somehow come undone. does this thing — beauty — come in and out of existence when anger flairs in their eyes or the night breathes in their cries, or do they ever even have those emotions?
or are they like me, and only see beauty elsewhere. when they sit in their favorite comfortable pants, when they let their tired body lay down. and that must be where the real beauty lies, in the comfort and quiet of home, they must go home.

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