My words cannot match the poetry of her body.
I am a few paces behind her. She knows my eyes are following. She knows I adore the dress she is wearing. It is simple and elegant, and so dark-blue it is black. . It touches her as if sewn against her skin by an enchanted seamstress.
The zip running from the neck to very low on her back is as bold as an invitation.
She can feel my desire touching her like electricity. It makes her feel special and proud. It puts an almost imperceptible extra sway into her exquisite hips.
Her legs in heels can only be the result of some divine artistry.
I cannot master the poetry of her curves
If only I could master her.