She is not merely made of sunshine and dewdrops and the taste of honey
Her voice doesn’t sound like the call of a nightingale, or the soft lullabies that mothers sing to their young
Her pale skin isn’t dotted with freckles that create tiny constellations on her skin
She is a product of celestial power,
those stars burning several hundred light years away
Her call is that of a wolf, and her song is that of a siren
She was forged in darkness under the waves of a churning, violent sea
and was found washed upon the rocks with nothing covering her but her long, dark hair
Her piercing amber eyes can see more than you will ever comprehend
“She is dangerous,” they will say
But she is much more than that
She is every desire,
every staccatoed breath and inhalation of intoxicating scent as skin meets skin under soft sheets.
She is the moon and stars, the vision of the Milky Way galaxy seen from a quiet place with no light pollution
So, be gentle with her.
Be careful with her.
Her love may be kind, and good, and warm
But her heart is battle-weary and scarred from all those years of being a beautiful work of art in the wrong hands.
Love her fiercely
And treat her well