She never allowed herself to be as fragile as glass,
Until he lit her soul like lightening on sand, with a fiery crash.

Perfectly imperfect as perfect gets,
Like a cat in your lap, the heart is where she sits.

Her touch is like thunder and it rattles your bones,
Feeling like a little kid, it's 95' again and I'm watching the flintstones

As hard to read as a book in the night,
But in her presence, no wind is needed to fly the kite.

If there's one thing over all, her intelligence is key,
Because it opens up the door to display all of her beauty.

The stars in the darkness and how they seem to hold up the sky,
Or a baby bird that jumps and hasn't learned how to fly.

Sometimes life tries to show us all we need is a little faith,
And it can sculpt us into something beautiful,
Like a woodworker uses his lathe.