If rumors were to be believed, five seconds of gaze into her deep brown eyes could ensnare the wisest of all souls. Could turn them into a monolith of indiscretion; with only remnant of an evidence left behind in the slithering echo of a misdemeanor. As legends go, the mutinous tresses of her hair, with each twist of chestnut curls, inspire the stirring nethers of a churning cerulean sea. On face of what lies as the joy of a crescent enveloped by locks of cloud, her smile could set a storm across the eye of mind. And fill the flickering moment of acquaintance with eternal nostalgia ; the helplessness of an infinitely profound longing with an addicting desire to offend the very fabric of life itself.
If rumors were to be believed, the sky crashed its soul into the foxy eyes of an enchantress; and although she was no Medusa, it still turned to stone.