Her eyes—so magical, so beautiful,
her soul shines through.
No matter how, it just does:
a perfect human, with a glance
that claims.

She doesn’t take the stage—
she owns it, she lives it.
Every blink makes the world flicker—
a soft fire burning
without permission.

I can’t tell if I’m falling in love
or just living in awe of a being so perfect.
She’s sitting across from me,
and it’s unbearable—

the way her fingers trace the rim of her glass,
like it’s the most intimate thing in the room.
She shifts slightly, and so does the gravity in my chest.
I haven’t said anything.
Probably for the best.

Because my hands tremble beneath the table—
not from fear,
but from the ache of holding back everything I’d say
if I believed I deserved to be heard.

Her eyes—still rimmed in that inky black—
don’t glance, they lock.
She sees something—maybe me,
or maybe she’s just letting me believe it.

Her lips look like velvet left out in moonlight—
soft, secret, poetic.
Like every word she’d speak writes itself.
I reach for the strength to stay fated,
holding the silence like it’s sacred.

She doesn’t talk much.
She doesn’t need to.
Her silence hums louder than a crowded room,
and I’m starstruck by her presence.

Her laugh fills the room with a kind of passion—
too alive to ignore.
It makes me unravel.
And I’m not sure if I want to run
or lean closer
and ask her to say my name.