First with the shoes – periwinkle flats only pretty and pink
The pumping hard air which swarms overhead anything but
Then a pair of darkened Rosemary Sycamore tights start to make their own way up either side of these seriously slender legs
A climb like no other always managing to occur
A navy Garibaldi pencil skirt to attempt to try and separately distance the real men from the wonder-boys
All of it turning out to be incredibly ironic in one particular instance
Some may even go so far as to say a hairy situation
The reddened lipstick gloss attached to an equally pretty, albeit at the exact same time excruciatingly contemplative Superman-smile
She’s been waiting a fair while, that superhero-esque aforementioned debutante smile for oh so long agonisingly forced to smirk it out unevenly
Inside of these typically dry-wit wings
Jimmy Kimmel on all kinds of studio-acid, perhaps?
A pair of lacklustre eyebrows always needing to be creatively plucked to within a bushfire inch of their Scorsese-esque being – plied and interwoven all over again and again via the devoted work of one wonderful and entirely trustworthy make-up artist
When real women get to go to absolute war
Set sparks a-fizzing like crazy, instigating modern day degrees of necessary everything
Next she stood on up, so strikingly//alarmingly beautiful altogether it really was impossible to try and understand this woman to have once been a man’s man
When wanderlust approached, wanting all of nothing
“You’re only half the man that I am… ”
Those words piercing her like a sword
“And I’d like to try and make you mine.”
“Why, thank you, kind sir!”

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