It’s been in the habit
That any specification seldom drills her
affections
That her style is rather fast perceptive in
whole
It’s impressionistic- abstract -inexplicit
That the contours of his face-
The
shifting shades of his eyes
The fabric of his skin- his hair- his nails
All sustain foggy in her memory.
Let alone the fervency in his smile
As he brushes his hands against her ankles
And his sweet conjectures racing before her
pranks
Form the silhouette of her entire passion.
Yet he mourns over her ways so quaint
And yet she impishly laughs at
Because
Every shell has its own whirl of air
It’s always private
Unrelenting
And persistent.
