Moth

She fluttered as she spoke.
With her pale, delicate, hands she flew- almost leaping from her seat.
Her freckled, knobby elbow thudded against the arm of the chair but I don't think she even noticed. Loose strands of honey hair escaped from the knot atop her head and danced around her face as she animatedly recounted the events of her day. Her plump, pink, lips, usually stretched into a hesitant smile, were wildly, almost frantically, parting and closing, her sentences running together. Her eyes lit up, flitting around the room, pausing sometimes to linger on me before returning to the bookshelf, the wallpaper, the old lamp, never remaining on one object too long. Her cheeks blossomed with color, hiding her sweet freckles, as she tried, desperately, to share her excitement, her wonder, with me.
But she couldn't.
I don't think that she could ever share that kind of beauty with me.