She’s made of midnight and dawn,
of lace and nettles,
of a summer’s dusk and dew soaked lawns,
her heart beckons with fangs and talons and shards of glass,
and yet how she stills and quivers under the grip of his hand.
The girls with messy hair and depth of soul will love you so fiercely your heart will shatter and you’ll sit at their feet while they beg to be at yours.
“I beg your pardon!?” She snapped.
“Go on then” eye brow lifting as he challenged her.
“Go on what!” She questioned looking perplexed.
“Beg” he growled.