He examined her. Ebony skin not bearing the brand of puberty, everything just a tad too long, legs, lashes. She was not strikingly beautiful. Her face would not stop you in a crowd, but she was enough. Maybe that's what made her so dangerous. You would remember a girl but it wouldn't be her.
YOU ARE READING
Drippings
PoetryThe space between thoughts and the little things that drip out when my back is turned.
