She walks —
and every silence learns to sing.
She smiles —
and the dusk begins to bloom.
Her glance —
a breeze that stirs
the stillest corner of my soul.
She speaks —
and time slips
into the rhythm of her voice.
Her hands —
soft as verses
never spoken aloud.
Her lips —
two petals caught
between prayer and desire.
Her fragrance —
not perfume,
but a memory of rain
on parched longing.
Her hair —
a dark monsoon,
where I lose
every reason to be found.
When she stands near —
even the wind forgets
its direction.
She is not just seen —
she is felt.
Like the warmth
after the flame.
Like a line of poetry
whispered into
a sleepless night.
Her presence —
not a moment,
but a mood.
She isn’t beauty.
She is what beauty becomes
when it starts to love.
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