She came into the cafe to meet the man she loved.
Her hair coifed in a tight bun,
her dress framing close her slim physique.
Her makeup was on; a hint of blush
lay on her cheeks, faint color of blood.
Her nails were done: pink she chose,
both on the nails of her hands and on her toes.
Her stockings little shaded
the compact shapeliness of her calves.
Heels as high as her feet were long
rounded out her whole physique.
Around her neck: a curl of silver
with crystals like stars embedded,
and a silver ring around her finger.
Her right wrist was braceleted
with a circlet of thin white gold.
And, on top of it all, there came
from the area of her neck,
and all over her encircled frame,
a steady haze of rose perfume.
With a firm step she crossed the space
to where the man she loved sat.
When he saw her, he looked up from his book,
keenly into her eyes, and said with a crooked stare,
“But I do not love you for your rose perfume.”
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