#SureShort9

Soaked in crimson, her lips
Call for catastrophe
Every time they protrude forward
The words that she utters
Threaded into a string,
The pearls, her hair
She plays with it as she,
Strokes them back, puffs them forward
Fluttering like a butterfly her eyes lash out
As she turns back to look at you once again
And you stare, astounded
Stung by imperfections of her beauty.

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4 thoughts on “#SureShort9

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