All The Things She Wasn’t

She was not a fine French wine.

She was the seeds of the grape in your teeth, the lasting reminder of her presence long after you lavished in her supply of endless fruit.

She was not long-stemmed red roses.

She was a roughly torn handful of dandelions. But given some time, you could purse your lips and make wishes come true with her on a windy day.

She was not sweetheart-cut diamonds.

She was beach pebbles with a million unique markings and she could warm your skin and wear you down to grains of ecstasy.

She was not the slow elegance of the perfect waltz.

She was unpredictable and erratic, but follow her step and she’d move to your rhythm and your heart would beat a powerful rumba.

She was not tailored, white-starched linen.

She was brazen-lipped, black vinyl and torn t-shirts. She was titanium-hearted ghetto glamour.