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My Mystery Woman (Revised with thanks to JKS). She was taut and tight like her guitar strings. Her dress didn't flow but clung like sinewy reeds displaying her body without clothes on. There were painted letters around the curvature of her ass. Her lips full - not a pout on a face not angelic, but classical, and her eyes didn't plead, didn't bore but sparkled. Ask me her name, and I can't tell you. I was too dammed scared to ask! |
Additional Notes:
This is one of those moments in time I wish I could have over again. The dress I write about
was a hand made print of her own design, that had letters of the alphabet in various shapes
and sizes all over (the dress). I met her at a poetry slam where she not only recited but
played one mean guitar. I was smitten by her, and hence the poem.
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