She Glides Like Dewdrops

What purely piques you is the fact that she’s impervious to basic human intuitive sense of narcissism. She’s genuine, timid to a fault, oblivious to her iridescent beauty. It’s quite stirring; it’s quite disarming. She’s heartbreaking even when she’s merely tossing a casual glance, or a languid smile. Coax laughter from her pillowed lips and you’ll be acquainted to the language of a champagne spilling into brooks. Meet her eyes and you’ll behold a drowsy cherub inhabiting Tieopolo’s dreams, her steady gaze tells of sweet melancholy for a far-flung beloved. When she smiles it would race across her face like a beam of light migrating and her eyes would flutter like a million fireworks. Her skin gleams, gently, like a Vermeer portrait. She moves like water. Fluid. Willowy. Graceful. Wispy as the summer breeze. She's possessed of a fawn’s elegant neck and even her tiptoes would remind you of gazelles treading in protracted strides. Falling in love with her is devastation. She’s bespoken to the notorious schmuck populating the rudimentary quarters of her precise opposite. Love is a peculiar thing. It transcends understanding. It rises above the cruelty of things.