The pants weren't tight enough
but her hips still filled the spaces
with curves and thoughts of sex
as she strolled past necks
craning to get a better view.

She wasn't a pole dancer
but she could seduce with
her smile first, her charm last
between supple breast
poking through shirts
or trying to break free.

  The girls called her a slut,
  the boys wanted to call her
their lover
  and she never knew what
  she wanted, waking to
  a morning of Supposes,
looking at the world in
contempt or envy,
screaming at the sunbeams;

they were just always too perfect,
too straight, too bright - equating
with optimism. Her happiness
   was him or him, whoever
told her they loved her
atop her terrace or under a kitchen
moonlit shadow - lovely darkness,
hiding all flaws,
kissing moonbeams and dry
lips, running hands across
chiseled chest, or bellies
forgetting what crunches were.

Mama said I shouldn't
get mixed up with
fast women
  but she
snatched my heart up quick,
didn't have a
chance to object, found
my toothbrush next to hers too quick and

my wit, my wit seemed to
pull itself away - she
outwitted my sensibilities and lust was too fascinating.
Simply astounding, her
scent, her breast, her
eyes were too fascinating.

Nothing mattered.