Alright—here's a softer, more poetic version. Still you, still deep, but gentler in rhythm, like waves at night:
She lives where the world softens.
Not in chaos. Not in noise.
But in moonlit oceans,
in the hush between songs,
in the scent of old pages
and the echo of words that linger too long.
She drives under stars,
not to run away—but to feel free.
The road doesn't ask questions.
The night doesn't expect answers.
She swims like she's searching,
runs like her heart is leading the way.
Books are her shelter—
especially the ones where love is messy and real.
Poetry is where she hides the pieces she doesn't show.
She's quiet, but not empty.
Still, but not simple.
Her soul is full of storms that don't make a sound.
INFJ—gentle in spirit, fierce in truth.
Melancholic eyes that see too much.
A heart too soft, hidden beneath a spine made of iron.
She doesn't like to be touched,
but craves closeness when she lets her guard down.
Not everyone gets to see that side—
only the rare few who look past the silence
and listen to what isn't said.
She's brutally honest—not out of cruelty,
but because she values truth more than comfort.
She won't play roles, won't fake smiles.
Her face tells stories her mouth doesn't need to.
She's not here to fit in.
Not here to impress.
She lives for moments that matter,
eyes that hold meaning,
and love that doesn't flinch when it gets dark.
She gets tired around people—
not because she's weak,
but because she feels everything.
Too deeply. Too fast.
Anger? It comes swift.
But not loud.
Like a tide that pulls back just before it wrecks the shore.
She's the kind that stays when others run.
Fights when others fold.
Loyal to the bone, until betrayal breaks the thread.
She rides like she loves—
fearless, focused,
and faster than regret.
MV Agusta beneath her, wind around her,
freedom pulsing through every vein.
She's not a storm.
She's the calm before it.
And if you get to love her—
you'll never forget what it felt like
to be seen that deeply.