It seems that any soft inch on you is a
lie.
Your inches in general are in short
supply,
and those, vandalized, marred, with
bone and musculature.
You're an intricate, anatomical model
in miniature.
If I touched you like I'd like to, I
think you'd fall apart.
I find it unattractive, and yet it
steals my heart.
The more I start to realize that you're
not my type at all,
The harder I fall.
No comments:
Post a Comment