Tattooed to a point of utter perfection, she stands and delivers everything upon a tattoo-emblazoned nutshell

These male egos narrow a route to her perfectly tantalised derrière delight – hidden inside her skintight everything, where imaginary dreams go to breathe one puppet-steered, jaw-dropped eye per time

He sees a resolute way within – minus a faltered ego plus all of the charm and gain

For him there are no real games… Just true wit and carefree intelligence, daft jovial radiance where everyone means something, albeit some far more than many

And she mirrors his sentiments exactly and offers him all of her moonstruck night

And the conversation is so suddenly conditionally inclined to be about anything she wishes to crazily dream for

… And … All of this on their very own terms, wherein two precariously perched people earn it at the Stroke of Midnight

He was right all along

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