And there she was, longing crack over crack,
scraping her heels against Chicago's rugged cement.
Each swing her thighs took forward,
her body followed so fluidly,
with her chest up high, firm,
and her top lip arched so sweetly.
I could never have her.
She was an overdose of elegance & erotic art.
I was a slum with cold, tight wrists.
She wore a light blue shirt, plain & simple but it spoke much
of her.
It was not constrained around her neck,
or loose in favor of cleavage.
It was tailored to show her collar, to construct a dignified diva
under a November night sky.
Her bra traced so clearly outside her hair,
but her hair & young looking face drove your eyes away.
Instead you stared at how fined out her jaw line was, and her nose,
all perfectly sculpted with such precise delicacy.
She was the female Peter-Pan,
with lips as creamy colored as pastries, driving you away from
her buxom body.
Beautiful.
The irony of her bring so beautiful,
you looked at her wildside with futility.
Focusing more on how you'd get your voice back if she glanced at you...
She walked past me,
swinging & whirling her body around with
an on point rhythm like a broken, but steady train.
No one speaks.
"wow..." I thought as I kept my sight glued.
Watching her leave wasn't as bad as I thought it'd be...
What a girl.
Why couldn't I talk to her?
My head hit the back door frame.
And then the sirens came on...
So did I.
Goodbye, Zoe.