The soft glow of the bedside lamp barely pierced the twilight, but Elara felt a familiar restlessness. "I'm tired tonight - need to sleep," she whispered, her gaze drifting to the silent figure beside her, wrapped in slumber. Yet, sleep felt distant, chased by a whisper of inspiration. "But there's a poem here somewhere / Hiding in the creases of your skin". She traced the delicate lines of a hand, marveling at the unique landscape of a body, so often seen yet rarely truly read. Her mind, usually so focused on the tangible world of her architectural designs, now spun with a different kind of blueprint. It was as if her own being, her "paper heart," was "calling out to feel the creator's pen". There was an urgency, a longing "Wanting the ink to explode inside / The belly of creation". It wasn't about building structures of steel and glass tonight, but about giving form to an ephemeral truth. Elara felt a deep weariness, a profound sense of the effort it took to simply exist, to navigate the complexities of life. "I'm tired but how does one leave / A masterpiece unpainted - a prayer / To love un-prayed - unspoken". The thought was a gentle ache. How could she hold back this burgeoning surge of feeling, this profound appreciation for the beauty she perceived, not just in the person beside her, but in the sheer, unadorned existence of humanity? Every human life was a potential masterpiece, a silent prayer of being, a testament to love. A soft sigh escaped her lips as she fully embraced the realization. "Who am I to deny the world / A fleeting glimpse at infinite beauty"? The poem wasn't just about the beauty in another, but about the inherent beauty in simply being, and the responsibility of witnessing and honoring that. The ink of creation might not always be literal; sometimes, it was in the quiet acknowledgment, the unspoken prayer, the simple act of beholding the infinite beauty that resides in every human, a beauty so vast and yet so fleeting, demanding to be seen and celebrated before it, too, drifted into the creases of memory.