I saw a girl today and it was like she shook something deep down inside of me.  She was, in fact, the first beautiful thing I’ve seen in months, not like the rest of the girls here.  She wasn’t flaunting her sexuality and intricacies on her shirt sleeves, oh no, no, this girl was hidden somewhere in the depths of her own image waiting for someone to pluck the delicious fruit from off her rather normal looking tree.  I began to scribble some words in my notebook…  It’s as if she floats on fluttering insect wings, like she was drawn with god’s own imperfect hand and stamped ‘beautiful’ by some quality control agent named Olivia.  Her smile dangles on marionette strings suspended from the probably smooth and wonderful roof of her mouth.  I want to drag my tongue across it.  Taste the suliva as it beads from her glands, before the air can ruin its flavor.  She walks like I imagine queen pieces would walk in chess, if they weren’t clumsily slid by the hands of people.  She looks at everything but at no one.  Notices the creaks in old trees swaying at their knees.  But not the stupid boys who stare at every girl but her.  And it’s as if, the graying sky dips, to ask for her hand in a  dance with the persuing night, and I notice her sway, every which way, with air in her palms, as the night moves on…  because even night gives up on beauty for dime a dozen Jersey sluts with short skirts and ugg boots after a few drinks.