Sapiophile..
She moves like meaning through a crowded page, A quiet force too vast to cage. Her beauty—yes, but not the kind That’s easily named or neatly defined. It’s in the way her silence speaks, How thought and fire lace her cheeks. Eyes that carry storms and stars, A library behind each glance of hers. She doesn’t chase the need to shine, The light just follows her design. Not made for mirrors or for praise, She’s built of wisdom, time, and grace. She asks the kind of questions deep, That echo long after you sleep. You’ll lose your guard, you’ll lose your place, But find your truth within her space. A paradox with steady hands — A soul that dreams, a mind that stands. She’s not for taming, not for show, She’s the answer you forgot you know, such a raging sage, epitome of erotic sagacity..