her body;
i refuse to compare it to another 60's
cliché.
she's not a movie, not a painting.
not a flower.
not a galaxy.
she's unique enough
to be called
a
river
of
her
own
because her body is made from the same matter clouds are made of.
mountains, oceans, fields cannot compare, to the pretty girl
with the curves
that could drown you
or make you
float
away, she is nicotine,
she is the balloon that guided my dreams
she leaves and i do too
wherever she goes i will follow.
a quest to look for the very strengh that belongs in the core of her eyes.
if she could only see
the way she looks to me.