Tall and slender,
dark and splendor,
she walked like a model;
a model with no attitude,
perhaps with a splendid beatitude.
She donned a smile,
that extended a mile,
causing a hurricane in any bypasser,
but she decided not to be a chooser;
not to choose any bypasser,
leaving no option;
no option other than to make them losers.
When she spoke,
she became a poke;
poking little hearts around her,
with her childish talk,
not to mention, even with her trembling walk(lol).
Clung to her ears is a small curl,
resembling the plan of a spiral;
a spiral constructed to cause a swirl;
a swirl in the heart of any virile.
None believed she was real,
for she was so versatile;
for she was so veritable;
yes, none believed she was real,
as she shone more than a tiny pearl,
nothing as good as this little angel.
Loaded with overwhelming charisma,
she penetrated into my heart faster than a puma,
this poem is dedicated to the sweet dogma,
yes, I am dedicating this poem to you Reshma.