She moves —
and silence stirs
to song.
She smiles —
and twilight,
once dim,
blushes with sudden bloom.
One glance —
and the soul
quivers like a harp string
touched by fate.
She speaks —
and the moment
lingers,
as if eternity
leans in to listen.
Her hands —
not hands, but verses
left unwritten,
soft with meaning.
Her lips —
a sacred hush,
as though heaven held
its final wish there.
Her tresses —
a rain of midnight ink,
composed by monsoon dreams
upon the skin of night.
And her nearness —
an invisible melody
infused in air and breath,
a fragrance of feeling,
a rhythm unspoken —
yet always known.
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