she calls herself plain. knees go weak when she walks by.

but when she plays her piano, when she sits there on that low bench and plays, thats when she feels beautiful.

and even that's tainted, to an extent.

she stopped taking lessons. she had potential but she lost it.

in her mind, she lost it.

her heart is in her playing. the beauty she will not see in the mirror, the beauty she hides when i cant stop looking at her, she lets come through in notes.

the way her hair falls, the way her hands move, the way her back arcs at the end of a piece, stretching her muscles. the way i fall each and every time, be it chopsticks or epilogue.

and then, then how easily she slips back into her built up facade of plainness.

i wish i could take her hand, lead her, show her how she's watched moving across a room, watched as she's eating, watched as shes just being.

but the only time shell concede to beauty is when she plays.