She trips over her own shoelaces,
spills coffee on her shirt,
And her hair defies gravity’s rules.
But these quirks—the imperfections—
Make her real, tangible, and utterly captivating.
Her laughter—unrestrained, like a brook’s babble,
Echoes through me, washing away shadows.
It dances in sunbeams, ripples across time,
A melody that lingers, even when the day’s glow fades.
She wears her scars like constellations—
Each one a story etched into her skin.
I trace them with reverence, for they map her journey,
A testament to resilience, battles fought, and victories won.
Her hands—weathered, yet tender—
Craft poetry from mundane moments.
They cradle fragile dreams, weave tapestries of hope,
And in their touch, I find solace, a sanctuary.
In silence, she speaks volumes,
Her thoughts like ancient manuscripts.
We sit together, words unspoken,
And the universe leans in to listen.
She hums half-forgotten tunes, fragments of melodies,
As if composing an unfinished symphony.
And I, the eager listener, lean closer,
Craving the notes she hasn’t yet revealed.
Her eyes—neither sapphire nor emerald—
Hold galaxies within, secrets whispered by the cosmos.
When she looks at me, I see stardust ignite,
And suddenly, the universe makes sense.