She wears her favourite red attire, the cotton collection which can stitch a million-and-one men to her momentary everything
Supposedly so, ever-knowing
Living and breathing, her quixotic conversation is all-consuming, remembering exactly what her equally delectable mother once told her, to be fastidious, downright delicious in bespoke curvature
A 1960s flavour courses on through her, who ever knew she could turn out to be the perfect replica, setting these none-too-savoury minds in all too erotic motion, sudden and unmatched devotion to her striking cause
When we paused for thought, sought out her undivided attention, quenched these manic egos which tend to transform us all one way or another
We’ve been prying inside of ourselves to find the right companion

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