Her presence—like silence kissed by the moon,
A calm that walks in, not a moment too soon.
She doesn’t speak storms, yet the world stands still,
For even the air bends to her will.
Her eyes—two lanterns carved from the night,
Holding galaxies, soft and infinite light.
A glance, and I forget to breathe,
Lost in the verses her lashes weave.
Her touch—a whisper that hums through my skin,
Not loud, but loud enough within.
It speaks in a language no voice could replace,
A sermon of love in a single embrace.
Her scent—like a memory stitched in the air,
Of jasmine, of rain, of something rare.
It lingers, it haunts, it gently consumes,
Like midnight flowers in quiet blooms.
She is not thunder, yet I hear her everywhere—
In breath, in pulse, in the shifting air.
No measure can cage what she’s made of—
Her presence is poetry. Her soul is love.
@KeNZie
A calm that walks in, not a moment too soon.
She doesn’t speak storms, yet the world stands still,
For even the air bends to her will.
Her eyes—two lanterns carved from the night,
Holding galaxies, soft and infinite light.
A glance, and I forget to breathe,
Lost in the verses her lashes weave.
Her touch—a whisper that hums through my skin,
Not loud, but loud enough within.
It speaks in a language no voice could replace,
A sermon of love in a single embrace.
Her scent—like a memory stitched in the air,
Of jasmine, of rain, of something rare.
It lingers, it haunts, it gently consumes,
Like midnight flowers in quiet blooms.
She is not thunder, yet I hear her everywhere—
In breath, in pulse, in the shifting air.
No measure can cage what she’s made of—
Her presence is poetry. Her soul is love.
@KeNZie
