Her world is a private dream a myriad complex thing juxtaposed within pains that run deep like a slice with a wicked knife into the fruit of a well worn life that drips it juices onto the floor where others tread its sticky mess.
Yet she floats. Always she floats, above and apart she floats. Wrapped in a delightful viscous vicious violent delicate sustaining way.
She floats. And I, †can simply only wonder when, she will ask me to join her.
You can only look at her and get tongue tied as your mind gets mangled That girl over there in that short skirt wearing those black thigh highs and garters, along with sharp heels that could most definitely hurt.
Oh, and when she smiles, simply sexadorable. A storm walking, dream of a nightmare on the prowl. The sensuosity she exudes, the magicalicious way she crosses the room.
Itís not fair I tell you. No simple mortal stands a chance. For they are all in thrall. Pupils dilated to drink her in. ...
When there is a connection A lover is a lover Like no other I have seen it I have felt it I have been told This Can this connection come and go, you suppose? I hope so. For it often goes. and goes and goes away.