The smile; with its long and delicate fingers gently parts
my strawberry like full lips, swiftly flowing from those parted lips down to
the aisle where it nests forever in the cores of my pampered heart; that sings,
screams, flings, and clings to the cruelty of the loved jet black coal like
eyes that stubbornly refuses to stop feasting on my hazel ones; for it shows my
crystal like soul burning with fire for an ambrosia like love that
prognosticates the promises for tomorrow and days after that.
(This is purely fiction and please don't report this to my parents ;p) .. My fantasies were coated by perfect men from books who spoke perfect words to flow the hem of my skirt and the strings of my heart. These men knew every poem ever written and every fairytale ever told. These men loved children and respected women. These men were crafted from a woman's pencil. I longed for these men. Painful to realize a real man is made of dirt and dust. They are made up of rhythmless tunes and mismatched words. They are clever yet need help to understand their feelings. They make me grip my hair and groan in distress. I could never find a prince of books. Then I got a man. Perfect at see but flawed at saw. These hip of imperfections could not match my dreams. Mismatch at its finest. 1 don't want to see but I observe and am curious. Who is this? Who is he who dreams of me? One of his kind, I dare say. The open arms invite me and hug me so tight, it's difficult to breathe. Actions...
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