She was fleeting and she was frantic;
anxious, chilling, breathless, brilliant.
When she was around all you could think to do was watch;
her mere existence was exhilarating, beautiful, stunning.
In the same regard, she was the calm after the storm,
the fresh rain on asphalt smell,
the petrichor; quiet stillness settling around like fading fog.

Her hair tumbled around her shoulders
in ribbons of luminous red, radiant orange.
Her skin was warm milky morning coffee sepia.
Her eyes were a curious grey, and when she cried
they produced a gentle, windowpane tapping drizzle
to lull her to sleep.
Her lips were a deep, royal purple, and spoke elegant regency.

Her smile parted clouds and her frown created them.
Her limbs were forgivably clumsy, her mind charmingly forgetful.
She fashioned herself a pastiche collage wardrobe of leaves, flowing and fragile.
Her acorn toes and willow branch arms took root from her butternut curved frame.

Each time you ran into her felt like you were meeting her for the first time again,
though she was homey, familiar, and warm with her
contemporaneous whisper-laugh lullaby and her
transfixing dribble drizzle babble,
a comforting déjà vu, to you.