The perfect woman would have dusky locks as dark as the night itself but when dawn would approach, and the first rays of light will fall on them, they’ll blaze like the golden morning sun in all its fiery glory.
When she will utter words she’ll weave magic as she speaks; the air around them will dance, each sound an incantation to an enchantment long lost.
The most beautiful thing about her yet would be her eyes. There would be blue of the mournful sky, green of the emerald sea, and brown of the earth fertile after rain.
She would cover her head in hijab of every color imaginable to man. No one would see her feet in the long dress she’ll wear, so when she walks it would seem she’s gliding on the air.
She’ll says things to you. Things that will arouse in you a passion of the soul. Things that will make you fall in something deeper than love. A trance. An ephemeral dream that’ll last an eternity and a day more.
She will adorn no jewelry save the golden pin embellishing her perfect nose. The only thing that could ever distract you from it would be how her lips would move when she’d say your name.
And when she leaves, and she will for it is what she is, she will leave without tears, the silence her only words of farewell. She won’t ever ask you to remember her, and perhaps you won’t. But you’ll never be able to forget her even if you tried.
A perfect woman would be all that, and none of that and she will be more. Because she the woman, Hestia the keeper of the hearth, Persephone the queen of the underworld, Artemis the wild hunt, Hebe the cupbearer of the gods, Aphrodite the ache of your heart, Athena wisdom and war.
She is the perfect woman and not a thing more, and as she needs all of that, she also needs none of that to rule, she is Juno Optimus Maximus.