She, Perfection Incarnate

In the dim glow of the silent room, she stands,

A sculptor’s dream, untouched by mortal hands.

Each curve, each line, a whispered decree,

Of beauty boundless, meant only for me.

Her skin, a canvas of celestial design,

Soft as dusk, where heavens entwine.

Eyes like galaxies, vast and untamed,

Drawing me into the stars she’s claimed.

Naked, she is not bare but divine,

A hymn of grace, every inch a shrine.

A masterpiece breathed into flesh and bone,

Eclipsing all wonders I’ve ever known.

To see her stripped of the world’s disguise,

Is to witness art through love’s own eyes.

Every shadow, every light, every fold,

A story of warmth, both fierce and cold.

No mortal beauty could ever compare,

To the sight of her form, unguarded, rare.

It’s not just her body, but the soul I see,

Unveiled in the quiet, meant only for me.

She embodies perfection, a word made flesh,

A soul unyielding, her spirit fresh.

Not merely beauty, but essence whole,

The fire that scorches, the balm that consoles.

To see her thus, vulnerable and free,

Is to taste eternity, wild and serene.

For she is the dream I dared not believe,

Perfection itself, in whom I am redeemed.