It would do no justice to sing the praises of the woman you’ve never met.
You could not fathom her beauty through a picture, nor imagine the sweetness of her words upon your ear.
Ripe nectarine could never taste as sweet as her skin, though it makes for fine competition.
Woman is a lover, with wiles beyond her grasp.
Yet she is not so grounded that she stops gravity herself.
Fear is not beyond her senses.
Wonton urges express the calamity inside her mind, in a solitude she cannot escape.
Lost to her wasteland, she wonders on.
She thinks she cannot be seen.