My gaze lingers on the form of her flawless curves,

a body too pristine, too unmarked by life’s touch.

Her flat stomach —smooth, a void of any story,

no ripples of time, no whisper of struggle.

No stretch marks carve their histories there,

no soft dimples of flesh, no mortal proof.

Her skin, a polished marble lie,

cold and untouched — I long to chisel, to crack.

Her nose, a delicate, thoughtless thing,

never bent, never shaped by pain.

No defiant arch, no earned imperfection,

just a small, perfect insult to my longing.

Her legs, thin as her silence,

smooth as if untouched by movement.

No curve of strength, no swell of effort,

only slender lines mocking my own.

And her hair— God, her hair —

cascading, full, never wilting,

never flattened by the weight of days,

never betraying a single root.

She is a portrait, not a person,

a thing too whole, too faultless to be real.

And yet, here she stands,

while I unravel at the seams.