She seems to simply be
Preposterously otherworldly – ethereal in a boisterous instance of rather lovelorn admittance, clasping at manic straws of utter inadequacy, I am indeed
Unrequited to the mammoth max – there she sits wearing these painted upon skinny jeans, that memory-lambasted welterweight jacket of hers to cause male-oriented conversation to stir like crazy – they can almost taste it but never, ever so much as touch what is incredibly, fair sensationally tantalised
I’d perhaps take all of her entire fragrantly set being all of the way right back
To track her readied and awaiting downfall might just be a tad… bitter, perhaps?
On my desperate, all too envy-ridden behalf
She does tend to laugh hard in this particular face of hidden adversity – a city over hears her quite silenced – yet no less snide for it – whispers amidst the dark, so you and yours shall grow to know of
To outrageously fail to have and to cuckold her whole again will be the notoriously aside infamously flabbergasting death of me
Sinners settle, say when