Her eyes—dark brown, like twilight’s hush,
Hold galaxies behind a gentle blush.
No comet streak, no moonlit tide
Could match the warmth she keeps inside.
She calls, and suddenly the gray dissolves,
The world resumes its sweet resolves.
Her voice—a melody, low and clear,
Turns distance into something near.
She doesn’t know the spell she casts,
How time slows down, how shadows pass.
Each syllable, a golden thread,
Weaves joy where sorrow used to tread.
She laughs, and even silence sings,
The air grows light, the heart takes wings.
A thousand suns could rise and fall—
None shine like her when she calls.
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