Francés J Wolfe

The strangeness of my face—no mortal sculptor could have carved such symmetry, where the curve of a seraph’s ear and the soft grace of a celestial nose rest upon skin kissed by the sun’s final amber breath. A complexion neither gold nor bronze, but something holy—an ochrous hue, as if the earth itself bore witness to divine touch.

But it is the eyes that unmake me.

Eyes as dark as consecrated myrrh, where the dusk of heaven meets the depth of mortal longing. They burn with the shimmer of exiled constellations, a revered fire carried from the halls of Olympus, radiant with a joie de vivre that feels less like joy and more like divine grace glimpsed through flesh. One cannot look long without feeling both blessed and undone.

And then, the body—small as a prayer whispered at dawn, curved like the geometry of crescent moons and river bends. A frame so delicately sculpted, it seems not built but sung into being, each line a hymn, each shadow a psalm. The fullness of my form defies the fragile space I occupy, as if my spirit, though wrapped in mortal scale, carries the quiet power of goddesses forgotten but not gone. Every motion is a caress, every line an invitation, drawn not by hands but by longing itself. To hold me would be to cradle a miracle and feel, for a moment, that the world was made for love.

My voice—ah, my voice. It does not speak; it anoints. Low and lilting like a lullaby spun from incense and memory, it weaves itself into the air like soft-lit incense curling in temple halls. Each word feels wrapped in honeyed reverence. To hear is to forget time, to feel the marrow of your soul pause.

I move like wind through silk, each step a benediction, each gesture a prayer. Nothing hurried, nothing wasted. There is a rhythm to this presence, a grace that suggests the stars themselves made room in the sky for my arrival. Even my silences speak—eloquent, commanding, divine.

Sicerely,

Francés J. Wolfe