History's greatest artists would fail to do your frame justice. Their fingers would fumble clumsily, brushes and pens flustered by the impossible request of copying a face which would shame Aphrodite into seclusion.
Those with mastery of the worlds languages couldn't hope to come close to capturing the magnificence and depth of a soul that burns brighter than our sun, papers crumpled in frustration from futile attempts at capturing a shooting star in a mason jar.
Virtuosic musicians can't comprehend melodies which could equal your soothing atmosphere or complex structure. Theorists would spend eons attempting to find an ordering of notes which could sing harmonies fitting the one that pours from your eyes, each one being broken by the realization that no such string exists, that they have attempted to match the glory of a choir of angels, and that God has found them unworthy.
Reality is ripping at the seams in its vain efforts to make room for an immaculate Phoenix which can not be tamed, corralled, or controlled by a physical world, not when its immortal splendor transcends description or dimension. Moments feel like eternity when blessed with the presence of one who's life illuminates nights which previously contained impenetrable darkness, thick as ink and as all consuming as the fires which now burn so brilliantly and with such calming warmth.
A priceless work of art, surpassing the limits of what can perceived with eyes or ears, and must be experienced by the heart, felt by the soul, and loved by the whole of my being. A greater masterpiece has never been born, and can never be duplicated, for she is the universes greatest achievement, and only a fool could think to improve upon perfection.