The whirl of her lips
Playfully wrong. Enticingly right.
The swirl in her eyes
The color swiveled. Two refracting kaleidoscopes.
The furl of her body
Echoes of ricochet of the perfect fulcrum.
The curl of her tongue
A tentacle, so disobedient, always undue
The pearl inside her oyster
Beautifully concealed, a perfect exhibit
The gnarl of her endless cosmos
Amorphous and circumfluous
And deposits of lust, that with time
Become their own landforms
And the tumor, her flesh has become
No oncologist can cure.