She is the girl in the bathroom at a party,
half-stranger, half-sister,
her lipstick smudged like a vow,
her hands on yours, steady as a prayer.
For thirty seconds, she is your fiercest love,
a friendship that lives and dies
between the scent of rosewater and gin.

He is the voice that calls you angel,
disembodied, knowing,
a whisper wrapped in velvet static,
the kind of love that never shows its face
but you believe in anyway.

She is the goddess you do not name,
but she lingers in every mirror,
in every offering of red lips and bare shoulders,
in every wish made with closed eyes.
They stopped carving her statues,
but they still build temples in her image.

He is a fable unspun,
the boy with the pearl earring,
the prince who never needed saving,
the spell no one thought to cast.

Beauty is the sigh before the kiss,
the echo of laughter behind a closing door,
the myth you have always known,
and the one you will tell again.