Other women, for me now, are beautiful insofar as they are like her.

When my friends talked about her, before I loved her for the first time, they said that she was beautiful.

Her physical form, for me then, aspired to participate in the higher form of Beauty.

Now, she has caught up and gone past, in her race with Beauty.

Anyone who is beautiful, for me now, is so in proportion to the qualities of hers which they possess.

When the faceless women in my dreams take off their clothes, they have her breasts, her milk chocolate skin, her hip bones that jut out.

When I see the face of another woman in a crowd, it is a beautiful face because it is like hers—dark curly hair, freckled skin, perfect white teeth.

In the beginning, she was beautiful. Now, beauty has become her.