She is the rose between pages of your book,
the fragrance of happiness;
she is shine, wine and everything fine.
She feels like sunlight in winter mornings,
is a symptom of stardust and miracles;
she is fire, ice and everything nice.
She is chaos in your heart,
the one who can set your soul on fire;
she smells like cigarettes and sadness.
She kisses like sweet devouring,
is a tornado with pretty eyes and a heartbeat;
she is insanity to your madness.
She is spark of the stars and scar of the moon,
the soul of dragon and heart of storm;
she is filled with emotions, thousands at a time.
She is the feeling of paradise on earth,
stares deep into your soul with her intense eyes;
she makes lemonade with vodka and lime.
She is poetry in a world still learning alphabets,
an open book written in a foreign language ;
she is a work of fine art.
She is whiskey in a cup of coffee,
is beautiful even with the scars she wears;
she is pretty, pretty kind, pretty funny and pretty smart.
She is the moonshine in the dark night,
the one who stands for the right one;
she is strong and she's fragile too.
She is fun, has fucks given none,
is a survivor, a warrior who fights every battle on her own;
she is brave and she's broken too.
She is all sweet honey and love,
is you, is me, is everyone;
she is everything she wants to be.
She is the sky in pretty colours, the music of rain,
is messy, sassy and a little bit bad assy;
she is more than what people see.