She's like some kinda cute.
She’s like “comic book, best friend next door”, cute.
As if some special, specific sign of wanting without intent.
You feel comfortable and insecure all at once.
And time never seems to move slow enough.
She’s like “dime store, stained glass”, cute.
Fragile, but not gaudy, no price tag, but surely not free.
You want her, no matter how little pocket change you have.
Something tells you that of you give everything it’ll be enough.
She’s like “cat in the pet store window” cute.
Soft, with short fur, big beautiful eyes, and the sweetest purr.
She is cuddly, and warm, and in need of hugs and kisses, and love.
With every string of your heart pulled, you take her home.
She’s like “over-sized t-shirt and nothing else”, cute.
Long, skinny legs that lead to where you want to go.
Hair, also long, reaching the base of her supple yet lean backside.
You are handcuffed by your gentleman trade, and merely caress this creature.
She’s like “tattered diary, and tear stained pages” cute.
Love poems written on hands, and wrists, ankles, and knees.
A novel of noble actions printed on her frail back.
The chapters seem endless and I trace the words.
She’s like, “nothing I had ever know before” cute.