The only way to describe her is by her name. 

She's beautiful like the moon in a puddle and like stars at midnight. 

Like the sun filtering through leaves in a clearing. 

Like the soft fur of a washed pet. 

Like dewy grass and pink flower fields. 

She's like a new jar of jam. 

Like a perfectly baked cake. 

Like the smell of rain on the soil. 

Like a good yield at the harvest. 

Like pulling a blanket up to your chin in the winter. 

Like seeing the view from hilltops. 

Like the ocean when it meets the sand. 

Like the bark of the banyan, holding it strong and upright. 

Her eyes hold universes, and I am but an explorer. They are constellations I’ve charted a thousand times, though I know they’re not mine to navigate. 

Her laugh is the crackle of fallen leaves when you step on them. 

It's the pop when you first open soda in the summer. 

The way her nose crinkles replicates the northern lights. 

She's like the crisp pages of a new book, 

like laughing in class with friends and making jokes about mundane everyday things, 

like inside jokes that make you giggle, even when you’re apart, 

like your mother feeding you ingredients while she cooks.

She is joy and happiness and sorrow and melancholy and nostalgia and rage and guilt and she is everything. She is all I need, she is all I want, she is all I am and she is all I was. 

She’s like the flicker of a candle flame in a dark room, 

like the fleeting brilliance of a shooting star, making you wish for a moment to last forever. 

Like the laughter of children playing, pure joy. 

She’s like the rustling of trees in a forest, carrying secrets only nature knows. 

She’s the hum of a favourite melody stuck in your mind, soft and persistent. She is the song you can’t stop humming, the words that shape your poetry. 

She’s the pause between heartbeats, the breath that catches in your throat. 

Like the crackle of a fireplace on a cold winter night, drawing you closer to its warmth. 

She’s like the smell of old books in a forgotten library, filled with stories waiting to be uncovered. 

Like the thrill of finding something you thought was lost, an uncontainable happiness. 

Like the touch of a worn-out sweater, soft and familiar. 

Like a secret whispered in the dark, intimate and safe. 

She’s like a flower in a garden I can only admire from behind a fence. I want to reach out, to touch, to hold, but my hands are clumsy, unworthy of her delicate beauty. She belongs to the sun, to the rain, to the stars—anything but me. 

Her smile is like the first cold breeze in autumn, no wonder I can't help but fall for her. 

I’m lost in her, hopelessly and irreversibly, and I know I’ll never be found. She is everything I want, everything I need, but she is not mine. She will never be mine.