She shows a thousand faces to the world,
tempting and tormenting,
seductive and surreal.
She is the richly scented roses
with their cliched velvety rouge,
provocative with promises of pleasure.
She is hiding beneath the damp ink
gleaming from tender prose and poetry
scrawled in cursive curlicues.
She lingers in whispered conversations,
warm snuggles and
stolen magic moments.
She rests in the wrinkled clasp
of two tired hands that have held the world
and wait to see one more dawn together.
She bears a hundred names,
in a thousand or more tongues.
She is versatile, whimsical and passionate.
She is fleeting and enduring,
paradoxical and timeless.
She is romance.
The road to Elle 