I am authentically spellbound to be profound. To fight fire with fire for that of which I desire.
Fallacies do not appease me nor does simple praise. Pretty words do not entice me to be locked upon your gaze.
Even if I engaged in the throes of desire. Infuation fueled wanting would surely transpire. Laid to waste by my waist or like a flower plucked and placed in a vase.
Only for the eyes to see and not the soul to feel. Only for your fingers to trace every vertabre on my spine never touching what is truly divine.
What a waste of a woman.