Sta.sh
sometimes unique
is not loud;
or bright, alive and raging,
possessed of a hunger for the atypical,
up front and too close,
or thrice-pierced and drenched
in the rebellions
particular to the latest generation.
sometimes it is a girl with
mouse brown hair and eyes
the color of weak tea,
who stands with her schoolbooks clutched
to her chest, in uniform shades of grey-blue
like the midmorning autumn sky
who has a wide mouth prone to nervous smiles,
pale lips and pale cheeks
and words that don't always come out
the way she means
who holds the universe
in the intricacies of her fingerprints
and laughs in treble clef notes
and understands the beauty
of a face with too many freckles.
sometimes,
unique is found
in the ordinary:
like a plain clothed book,
on the last shelf in the corner,
tattered and sun stained and wrinkled.
you have to look past the simplicity
and take time to search the pages
and pick out the idiosyncrasies
lingering, discoveries waiting in the dark
(she doesn't believe in umbrellas,
she never puts birthday candles on her cake,
her favorite jacket is tweed
and there's a mockingbird she feeds every morning
outside her window
though it has pecked her twice).
unique,
sometimes,
does not require the soul
to be aware
(whether humbly or arrogantly or even at all)
of how incomparable it is.
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