She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look.
She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her sight, and sorrowful to her soul. As misery creates the greater, darkened clouds, it becomes a short-term relief when passion can overrule it. A touch between the legs has made her face aglow, while her eyes are glinted like the prettied, tempered steel. Like two fastened orbs of metal, encrusted into her skull, the irises show off the only color, being like we have said, a stark green.
As she leans closer, the soon sight of herself to the vanity she exposes from her skin, the life in her form, the energy in her slight quivers, harbors a great attention to detail.
Little droplets racing from beneath her arms, driving a scent to the unfurling winds bleeding in from an ajar window, would entice even the smallest pebble, were that to hold life. Her hair, a great wind for a flurry, heaving in all direction in its disordered nature. It, too, holds a fragrance, clinging in shampoo to the utmost of its alignment. She is, inarguably, tempestuous, just as she is radiant, both in the literal and figurative depiction. Her back, arched, as her bottom throws itself upward, revealing pink for pink, gleam for gleam, and scent for scent. A defeatist nature would make anyone mad, were they to not dabble in the admiration of her. She is now like a plucked lily from a bed of algae upon a pond.
Still, great weavings of thread somewhat cloak her, about the waist, and about her legs. Her bottom, plump. Her breasts, full. Her eyes, aglow. Her hair, graced by a silken texture within each strand, and being luscious by every highlight. Modesty only ever cloaks the startling form, enough to have the yearning to tear it away.
Modern Romanticism 