She sits.
She waits.
Alone, ever so,
in the dark corners of her mind.
She muses.
She doubts.
Love is but a myth to her.
Never could it be attainable,
for it causes too much agony.
She cries.
She questions.
Her endless requisitions reverberate,
all throught the deserted corridores.
She explores.
She hides.
Too many have scarred her.
Too many have tried.
She rests.
She disacknowledges.
I lay beside her
and let her absorb my warmth.
She remembers.
She fears.
I brush my lips against hers,
allowing her to indulge my fidelity.
She recoils.
She broods.
I take her hand in mine,
assuring her of my devotedness.
She overlooks.
She loves.
She presses her lips back to mine,
ensuring her own passion.