Maiden of the Mists

I watch her from the mirror
As her size 3 figure exits the shower.

She wears the sound of water
As she glides from steaming clouds.
Her bare skin sings the scent of fragility,
Peacefulness haunting the air around her.

It makes my heart uneasy...

Upon her pale, parted lips,
There reads a look of need, of pleading,
And her eyes walk their observers to a land serene,
To a place where passion and lust divide,
United in motive and emotion.

I have never been there...

Her collar bones protrude her chest,
Shoulders lying confidence.
Her chest lacks the provocation of desire,
And she reeks of willingness as she glides,
Glides from streaming clouds.

I desire just to touch her...

Her hair shadows her tilted face,
Hiding from her uncertainty.
Beads of water linger on her lips and brow,
Inviting an outside flesh to feel.

I want to feel...

Her perfectly curved spine is laced with droplets,
Cascading down to the tight hint of a rear,
where they bead and come to rest,
Glistening...

I watch as she glistens...

Her hips roll like a soft song,
Swivelling as she glides from steaming clouds.
Her crossed legs crave corruption,
to unveil, unlock the treasure they hold.

I want to take those secrets from her...

Her obsidion pupils leak diversion from her body,
Fearing the lack of all that she indeed possesses:
Perfection.

I would not call her such, but she is near...

Her hand rests, one, atop her breast firm,
The other above the V between hips,
Innocent and shielding,
Protection.

I must protect her...

she wears the sound of water
As she glides from steaming clouds.