She is the quiet type. She seldom speaks. But when she does, her words are sweet like honey, causing the hairs on my skin to rise with delight, the surface of the Sun to ripple, the universe to hold its breath.
She is the timid type. She seldom raises her voice. But when she does, hurricanes quiver, rivers straighten their every bend, and stars rearrange themselves in new constellations, just to please her.
But however grandiose my hyperboles — describing her — may be, few things are more remarkable than the way she loves me.