This spring she sucks in her gloomy temper
When she does the zip of her high waist jeans. Yes, she sips confidently their gleaming gazes And waves chains of pheromones With the tips of her nude painted nails.
This season the blossom falls heavily on her breath. With coquettish suspiration, she extracts polite grins. Then, she blends the edges of her perfumed floral scarf And pass it to him, while whispering sensually “I am not impressed, never again, not this century.’’
This March her feet are receptive and velvety.
They palpate intuitively the asperities of his dull babble, And invite his intensity to step on his flat shyness. Then, perfectly conscious of the small imperfections Hidden under her breezy dress, she captures with The curls of her ebony sleek hair his maleness.