You are a work of art. In the gallery of existence,
You stand as a masterpiece, an eternal symphony of light and shadow, colour and form.
Your laughter is the stroke of a master painter's brush, bright and vibrant, filling the canvas of life with hues no palette could ever capture.

Each word you speak, a sculptor’s touch, carving beauty from the mundane, revealing layers of depth in the simplest moments.

In your eyes, I see the reflection of starry nights, the mysteries of the universe condensed into a gaze that holds galaxies.

Your smile, a dance of light, a delicate play of shadows, casting warmth and radiance in every direction.
The way you move, fluid and graceful, as if you are music made visible, a melody that weaves through the air, enchanting and ethereal.

You are the poetry in motion, the essence of creativity made flesh.
In your presence, the ordinary transcends into the extraordinary, the mundane into the magical.

You are a living testament to the power of imagination, a reminder that beauty is not confined to frames and pedestals but exists within the heartbeat of life itself.

You are a work of art, not confined to a single medium but an ever-evolving masterpiece. Every moment with you is a brushstroke, every shared glance a note in a symphony.
Every touch a sculptor's caress.
In the museum of my heart, you are the centerpiece, the exhibit that draws all eyes, the creation that inspires awe and wonder.

In you, I see the convergence of dreams and reality, the embodiment of all that is beautiful and profound.
You are art, not simply to be admired but to be cherished, lived, and loved.

In distant Boldmere, where dreams do dwell,
There reigns a sprite named Tinkerbell.
Not just a fairy, small and spry,
But mischief’s princess, soaring high.

Her wings agleam with dust so fine,
She flits and flies, a spark divine.
With twinkling eyes and laughter bright,
She weaves her tricks from day to night.

She’ll swap the pirates’ maps for fun,
And lead them on a frantic run.
She’ll tangle mermaids’ flowing hair,
And leave them floundering in despair.

The Lost Boys’ games she’ll twist and bend,
Just to watch their tempers end.
She’ll hide the things they need the most,
Then giggle from her secret post.

Yet, despite her impish play,
Her heart is pure, a guiding ray.
For her brother , she’ll always care,
A loyal friend through all they dare.

So here’s to Tink, the sprite so grand,
The Princess of Mischief in Neverland.
With every flutter, every spell,
Long live the reign of Tinkerbell!

In the quiet of my solitude, I craft castles from the fragments of my heart, knowing they will never shelter her. Each word I whisper into the void, each silent plea, is met with the echo of my own yearning.
Her laughter is the sun, vibrant and untouchable, while I am the night, longing for a dawn that will never come.

I gather the stars of my affection, weaving them into constellations that spell out her name, hoping she might look up and see. Yet, her gaze is fixed on distant horizons, places I cannot reach, people I cannot be.
My love is a river, flowing endlessly,
but her heart is a mountain, steadfast and unmoved by my ceaseless tide.

Every glance she spares me is a gift, a fleeting moment where I am bathed in her light. But as quickly as it comes, it fades, leaving me in shadows, clutching at the air where she once stood.
I am an artist, painting her presence in the colors of my dreams, but my canvas remains blank, for she is not mine to hold.

I can't make her love me, and this truth carves deep into the marrow of my being. My love is a quiet reverence, a solemn prayer that drifts into the expanse of what could never be. And so, I remain, a silent guardian of my unspoken affection, a poet of the unattainable, cherishing each moment she is near, even as she slips further away.

In this realm of unrequited love, I am both prisoner and poet, my heart a testament to the beauty of loving without return, an ode to the bittersweet dance of desire and despair.