Her words arrive like whispers in the dark,

small sparks that flicker, lighting up my screen.

No voice to shape them, only silent ink,

yet somehow, still, they echo in my chest.

She writes in rhythms soft and full of fire,

a language laced with laughter, sharp and bright.

Her mind, a river, deep and ever-moving,

pulls me beneath, yet never lets me drown.

She teases, challenges, and keeps me guessing,

a storm of wit and warmth I crave to chase.

A flame that dances wild but never fades,

born of the sun, untamed and full of light.

And though my hands have never traced her form,

I know she moves like poetry in motion.

Her beauty lingers, even in the dark—

curves drawn by God with careful, steady hands.

I picture eyes that hold the sun at dusk,

a smile that makes the stars forget to shine.

No touch, no glance, just words upon a screen,

yet still, she stirs something I can’t explain.

And as the night hums low between her texts,

And she feels it, too.