She moves as midnight
soft and sure,
with the hush of ancient rivers
and the thunder of knowing.
Her skin holds galaxies,
deep within stars
that never needed a sky
to shine so brightly.
Crowned in coils,
a living hymn to the sun’s kiss,
she walks through rooms
like that memory
bold,
unapologetically real.
Her laughter isn’t light,
it’s full and sailing,
the kind that carries stories
and electrifies the air
like a summer storm.
She is born from rhythm,
from spice, from flame,
from roots that remember
how to bloom in drought.
And when she looks at you,
you remember
what connection
was always meant
to feel like.
