When she walks into a room, it immediate becomes a different place. The silence is audible. The wonder is tangible. A cherubic face - the very picture of innocence, framed by ringlets of chestnut - seems unassuming at first. She's probably shy, kindhearted - your typical pretty girl.

But then she looks at you with opalescent eye that seem to shimmer with all the secrets of the galaxy. This otherworldly gaze could catch you from across a palatial space. It sends mens' hearts into frenetic palpitations while their legs grow flaccid.

Other women, jealous of her profound effect on the opposite sex, try to disparage her. Criticize her clothes, her posture, the fact that her nose is a little crooked and that a gap separates her front teeth.

But she is truly sacrosanct - an ephemeral beauty, an extraterrestrial star, ever present but untouchable. Like the waves of the ocean, the wind in your ear, the half-remembered dream, she remains just out of reach.

Her touch is gentle and leaves you wanting more, despite knowing that you will get nowhere. Her voice is crystal clear yet fleeting, like birdsong. Her lips part ever so slightly in secrets untold, in kisses unshared. Everything about her pulls you in, makes you lean forward in anticipation. As though you can ensnare her in your embrace. As though you can capture her within the folds of your memory.

But do not let her angelic charm and lovely words fool you. She is far from the doll she resembles, some toy for men to fawn over. That luminous, glowing, perfect face can easily become an icicle cold enough to pierce the strongest of hearts. Those eyes like the galaxy glare into your very soul until your thoughts are no more than a cacophony of fear, bewilderment, and panic.

She has the power to break hearts and send men into spiraling depression. No matter how hard you try to keep her within your grasp, how much you show your undying love, she is not one to stay in the same place for long. She will leave, like the tides, like the phases of the moon.

But despite these cruel tendencies, she is not malicious. She feels no joy in ripping apart the feelings of her suitors, in crushing the flowers before they have a chance to grow. It is impossible to know what demons haunt that mind, what troubles settle in that heart like stones.

She simply acts on how she feels, always changing, never stopping, forever out of reach. Like the waves of the ocean, the wind in your ear, that half-remembered dream - her very being is the paragon of verity.

No lies, no pretenses.

Just her.