angel

Being enamored with her physicality doesn't equal affection for her personality. 

What isn't there to like about a 21-year old body? 

The length is incredible, legs that seem to run up her hips, into her torso. 

If she were a superhero, her legs would somehow be incorporated into her superpowers.

Her hair is everywhere yet simultaneously stylized. 

A piece of her star tattoo protrudes into visiblity, depending on what outfit she's chosen for the day.

She isn't a classic beauty, her jaw too long and her eyes sunken in, though she exudes sensuality.

Carrying a vulnerability into the bedroom accenuates her magnetism, and is one of the few I don't mind sleeping next to after lift-off. 

Her age is apparent in dialogue-conversation regularly comes to a halt thanks to the generation gap. 

She was born in 1986; by this age, I was already a seasoned eight-year old, singing the Peter Cetera theme to Karate Kid II, tossing water balloons at passer bys during vacation bible school.

She taps at her Blackberry incessently, its presence neverending, as if a third limb.

I can't discuss world events with her, or music, or film, or writers.

She listens to Fergie, she loves Pixar entertainment and the CW network.

The lack of verbal exchange is painful at times. 

But then, after intercourse, looking into her eyes while moving strands of hair out of her face with my index, I am completely in love.