She Has

She has the sort of eyes that you need to look into several time to make sure you have the description right. Most would be wont to pass them by with a lazy glance, never fully recalling them in hindsight. They are a soft blue, almost gray when she is focused, and startlingly bright close up. They compromise so many shade and insinuations of hues that one would be able to gazing longingly at them for a hundred year, and still get the feeling that there may be a nuance or two missed in one's travels. When one locks with her glance, one knows from then on that she is delicate in her hardness. That she is one who should never know words like "grief" or "pain," because she shatters ever so slightly and imperceptibly every time she crosses their path. Small cracks like hairs playing over her, though she resists with all her strength.

She has roseate lips, soft and gentle. No sin nor evil could pass from those lips and into the world. They seem to beg to be kissed always, as though she may learn of the world with a thousand and one gentle-though-passionate kisses. They move playfully, enunciating every word with a capriciousness that envelopes ones every thought. The words arouse one closer, that she may again kiss. In every kiss is a sweetness known only to fruits never disturbed by man, still the fiery craving within them would be enough to ignite the coldest night.

She has skin like a silk pillow. Every time she is touched, it is utter shocking to feel it yield under slight pressure and turn achingly white beseeching another caress. It is as though she still has the skin of an infant, as though she has yet to fully grow and harden into this world. Yet it looks as though she was carved from the hardest rose quartz and placed as an idol in a temple. Or, perhaps, she was drawn from the memory of a Celtic princess centuries past.

She has a face infinitely innocent and sweet, and it would almost kill one to know rarely a tear has rolled down it. It is the kind of faultless splendor that men fight wars to protect. It seems as though she has just came from a distant land and knows nothing of the world, but the mind resting behind it is far more jaded. It knows the pain and hatred that exists outside itself, but her face betrays naught of this. Her eyebrow raise coquettishly yet querulously as one passes, for one is given to pass her for far too long. The kisses on her rose cheeks must be placed now, for, in simply touching that face, one can't help but know she shall leave soon and forever. As she leaves, her face will betray nothing of how she truly feels, because she cannot remember how to show weakness but through involuntary fissures.

She has silky brown hair that flows past her shoulders. It is pin straight as though all it wants in life is to lie in the kind green grass. It is as a sanctuary from the ills of the world, and only nestles against it, bathed in the sweetness of it, can one truly feel safe.

She has small perfect shoulders. Yet they are determined and strong, rallying against the problems the world heaps upon them. She is resolute to stay above the ocean of inadequacy and conformity that lies at her feet threatening to drag her down.

She has thin arms. You would be tortuously incline to think she was frail and weak, yet her arms course with feral strength hidden beneath a gossamer guise. However, to be held be then, one would swear that she was weak and could never again move her arms but to caress. To leave these arms would be a crime against god and man, and only when partying to these arms exert their power to hold one closer and never let you escape their embrace.

She has hands like a spider, long and elegant. Her extended fingers seem to try to grasp the sky, to pull it down to her level that she may enjoy a nap in the clouds. Simple grazing one's face with those glassy nails, cut short enough that they barely belie her femininity, send electricity through one's body to the very core of one's soul. She moves her finger gleefully though absentmindedly, conjuring up magics unseen, but in one's heart. And on these hands one wishes to place innumerable archaistic bejewelments, though she wouldn't wear a single one. One also allows ones heart to beat to place one certain kind of ring on her finger.

She had breasts like ripe peaches. Delicate, sweet, supple. She laments over them, wishing for them to be more, but they are exquisitely formed by nature. They betray her youth and softness to the world, announcing that she is a beauteous elf, unrivaled by the rest of her fair sex.

She has a abdomen like elastic steel, from a life that demands of her physique. It ripples and undulates like a calm rolling river, condensing and convulsing when tickled capriciously. Behind in lies the balled up pathos on years gone by, burning to be release from Pandora's Box like a million fireflies, leaving only hope within her.

She has lithe legs. Only here is her hoydenness revealed against the etiolated whiteness of her legs in satin scars and cerise wounds of a thousand battles on the playing field. They are strong and slender, like a swimmer in Neptune's ocean. Despite her constant mental urges to the contrary, her attenuated legs move her with the grace of a gazelle. Her legs divulge her true femininity to the world, more so through the punishment she subjects them to in an effort to make them obey her notion of what she should be. So she covers them with pants several sizes to big, to hide her innate female dreams.