As far as he's concerned, she has
the kind of tits and eyes a man
could get lost in all night and day,
and maybe life. She has the kind
of hips and open heart and maybe legs,
a man could lose himself in wonders
or in wondering. She has perfection
kept within, and advertised
without the sales and marketing.
Enough to beg, to give to her
the humbling she badly wants
or needs from him. She has about
the perfect ass - but
far as she's concerned
she'll pass.
He guesses maybe
she missed what he's offering.
But how could he have made it
any plainer, though? Confused,
he stands firm, resolute
and softening.
Could tenderness
have been a thing to try,
with her? But now he'll never know.
She walks away unwon,
and undeterred - a living symphony.
A prize for which / or which
he'd rather kill than die.
The shame of it is infamy. Who does
she think she is? And why? I guess
she isn't into me. Was I too nice
a guy, not bad enough a boy? What kind
of man does she not want to so destroy?
He turns from her, disgusted with
the enmity.
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