She wears her fear like a dress, allowing it to gently flow through the twirls she makes to life’s subtle sounds. It hugs her nicely, exposing a form she tries to hide yet one that can’t be shrouded, raising interest in even the most casual observer to what is underneath, what is beyond, that layer.
I want her to peel that dress off, and I want to see her naked form. I want to lightly touch her hidden places, raising bumps of pleasure along the way. I want to kiss her in spots she tries to cover, taste the drink she tries to bottle, and feel the certain joy she tries to mask in the doubts her mind shouts with reckless abandon.
The world may see her dressed, but I will see her naked. The world may see her cloaked in fabric stylish to the day, but I will see her clothing strewn about the floor of our sultry church. The world will marvel in the way she looks in that dress, but I will know her beauty without it, and I will have quite a secret to tell her in moments when she forgets just how beautiful she is.
I will touch her. We will meet in space otherworldly, and we will make love with a passion rarely known to man. She will then sink into me, knowing that I do not own her, and I will then hand her that dress to do with as she pleases.