For the One Who Moves Me

I see her sitting down with her arms resting on her thighs,
looking graciously at the endless point of the ocean waves. 

From a few steps away,

I pause,

staring at her divinely sculpted figure, unlike everything I’ve ever known. 

“The remedy my soul has longed for,” I mutter to my small stature.

She feels like a song,

sung by poets on parched land,

holding the patience of time itself,

awaiting the lover’s return home. 

Such beauty feels unfamiliar to me.

She feels like a movement,

danced by little dancers rejoicing life,

free as fresh air, drifting through the breath of priests and sages,

calm as the endless night beneath a full moon’s glow. 

If poetry were a stack of beautified words,

She is one in motion. 

A pursuit that never wearies its creators,

a craft renewed with every repetition,

written by a pen that never runs out of ink.

Her essence leaves me awed.

A reminder of eternal truths,

testaments etched into the soul of time—

a vitality untouched by the hands of refinement. 

Tiffany Putri