translucent strings with opaque beads

keep the entrance to her room,

jasmine rice and a touch of curry in the air,

rouge washes the ceiling,

goldenrod bathes the walls,

and there are mirrors with fleur de lis lattices on their spines,

she likes to see herself as she passes them… oft as she does,

her eyes the gateways to places he can only imagine,

and does he dare to go there?

Is he the Echo to her Narcissus?

or just a daydreamer with a pining in his chest,

and what’s wrong with a little vanity anyways?

If you had those curves and them curls; you too would be wound up in them.



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