It is always the eyes,
as attractive as a Venus flytrap,
twice as deadly,
either in the
photographs
she sends me
or in her stare across
the table at the
office,
large eyes, full of
secrets I can't read
others might find her
mouth more attractive,
but a bit too wide like the femme fatal
from a James Bond movie,
very kissable, but
not quite as dangerous,
too predicable in that it will
laugh or cry, smile or pout,
yet always too obvious like a barometer of mood,
while her eyes, her
mysterious eyes,
hold all that she is all about,
a lock box which
needs
the right combination
to open
a defiant stare that challenges you
to try and open her up,
dares you to find out who she really is.
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