"What’s she like?"
She’s like a summer storm—smack, boom—and then the heavens break and she surrounds you and you can’t help but dance.
"No, what does she look like?"
She looks like moonlight and meadow flowers, like breathless laughter through a silent house.
"But is she hot?"
Fire is hot and she is a supernova. Smoke stings, but she—
she is suffocating.