The way the sun bathes the world in its glow first thing in the morning, as the little humans wake from a dream-filled sleep..

A piece of writing so poetic, so heartfelt and wrought with emotion that it makes you cry, whether they be tears of pain or happiness matters not..

Something that to you, is infinitely beautiful, like a brief moment when you know exactly what your lover is thinking..

This term, achingly beautiful may apply to thought, imagery, anything.. it's something that makes you feel the beauty it holds.
A quiet room, with only the voice of Natalie Merchant on Think of me and any other really slow, soulful song that she sings. It is painful and lush all at the same time.

The first day of fall, when the trees finally give up their leaves to the inevitable and the evening sky becomes grey instead of orange.

Children sleeping, as you hand them a stuffed giraffe and put their covers back on at 2:00am- that too, is achingly beautiful.

Sometimes I stop and just watch her move. As if dancing, she amazes me. A combination of her grace, beauty, and a lust for life make her the most stunning subject to survey. There are moments when I catch myself staring at her while she does something so mundane that I’m in awe of how brilliant she makes it seem. Just to watch her breathe in the life around her.

I wake up early some mornings, next to her, and watch her sleep so peacefully it seems she’ll never wake. It's that moment I can't replicate. It's nothing that Hollywood can model, or a magazine can incorporate into the thick, glossy pages that smell like perfume and plastic. It's much more intrinsic and naked.

She laughs like the most brilliant sunset over a red-stained ocean. It’s so stunning and contagious that it becomes addictive. That’s why I love to pause when we’re together, and just watch her. It’s painful. It hits me right in the chest, an aching feeling. She is...achingly beautiful. Not just stunning, gorgeous, or radiant, those are purely visual conclusions. It’s all the things about her aside from the fact that I believe she very well may be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. It’s more the way she talks or laughs. Sometimes it’s the way she cares for people, and then other times it’s something as unadorned as how she walks or shifts her weight while standing in line. It’s the way everything about her is effortless, graceful, and absolutely beautiful.

It’s something you feel so deep down in your chest that it bluntly hurts, achingly beautiful

"...they danced down the streets like dingledodies, and I shambled after as I've been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones who never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes 'Awww!'" – Jack Kerouac, “On The Road

the pause after you see something or hear something, (especially art if you are so inclined), where your breath tightens and everything tingles and something about your soul is reflected back at you - the desperate beauty in the tragedy in American Beauty, the haunting sound of Miles Davis, the words of Shakespeare twisting around themselves in so many layers, suddenly looking at the sky as it hangs so serenely above us - with little care for what we worry about below it.

That tightness, that tingle- it is an ache to understand, an ache of gratefulness in finding something of ourselves in something else, beauty found, created and appreciated because it reflects human condition.

The picture of her in my head when she's sitting ten metres away, and I know the exact expression which will be on her face when I look up. Just because I've known her for so damn long, and there's no way I can rub out her image etched on my mind. We might no longer talk, but the conversations we have in my dreams are enough.

Having to stop and read a poem again, just so you can hear it one more time resounding over and over amongst the twists and turns of your head.

The film I play to myself in my mind where I run, faster each time, down to the end of the green, green field at sunset, and knowing I will never have another field to run in simply because I am no longer a child.

Watching her turn and run from me. Even though I know I will never see her again, my heart is beating so fast that I just know it is about to implode. Nobody's heart bothers with such mundane things as distance. They know what they want, and at that very moment, mine knows that watching her kick up a sandstorm over the burning ground, her knee-length dress twisting and spinning about her legs, her bare feet carrying her away, is the most beautiful thing in the world.

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