The Woman's Mortal Soul Beyond Deciphering

I stared at her full breasts as she spoke vulgar language      
like a friend that somehow happened to be a beautiful woman.              
With a rope of optical transifixation, I tried to lasso the color of her green eyes,              
but she shied away towards the screen above for entertainment while lust of squeezing her tenderly with soft sentiment fluttered in my resting consciousness.              
             
As it so happens, in the breakroom my flower pen withered along with  poetic verse and was replaced by an explosive to hopefully appeal to her tomboy charm.              
But I still burned violently inside, not knowing what to do for romance              
since she bores easily underneath the quiet stars and the sweet heavy silence of the night suffocates her love.              
How, how do I grow a harder heart              
for a woman who lies on concrete and respires lightning              
and wants a calloused hand to hold?              
             
Rubbing through her skin in search for her thrill, take me home images and dreams to the lady's full breasts to kiss those vulgar lips and taste a friend's tongue and clasp her humeri (her funny bones will always tease mine figuratively though my literal hands want to figuratively smile like my mouth does literally when pressed figuratively against her humor).              
Love is easy when you work with the woman you love,              
but it is hard when the night shift has ended and the sun rises in the day, and the sun that lighted your night is hidden by the morning clouds of house and home partition, and beneath my lids I can see her until I waste the day like spilled whiskey for the night to come again and I can breathe her smiting vicinity like during the dream-dropped night before.