She’s the accidental brush stroke that made Rembrandt smile.
A wrong chord at the right time that makes the concerto that much better.
She’s the halo around the moon, on a dew soaked night when she’s a ghost of herself.
A lie and smile, so beautiful you don’t care about the truth because of how she looked at you.
She’s a celestial mystery encompassing everything beautiful one could hope to experience in a lifetime.