Somewhere—perhaps in a dictionary edited by God— there are words that disclose who you are. All I know (and don’t think it odd) insights of mortal make fall short by far.
They aren’t within the shadow of the mystery of you— the disarming charm, talent that is alien, wonders that you work, nuances I never knew. Together they cast a scene glorious and aurelian.
I lament not your numberless, shrouded retreats they draw me ever closer in inspired intrigue. If I find a rare disclosure, I relate it to errant elites. There are no words except seeing you is to believe.