Itâs that look.
Trying to be passive,
Like the burn of your stare,
Doesnât set fire to her imaginations,
Like she doesnât care.
Itâs that look.
As if sheâs not troubled,
At the realisation,
That sheâs going to love,
Because love is devastation.
Itâs that look.
Those pouted lips poised,
Like a gate rigged shut,
Giving her time think,
With her brain and not her gut.
Itâs that look.
That says âback offâ,
But also says âstayâ,
Almost like a doll,
Yet her soulful eyes betray
Itâs that look
Like hors dâoeuvres,
You absolutely adore,
A delicious treat leaving you weak,
And hungrier for more.