Mona Lisa-esque

Everytime she walks past, I hafta rubberneck 'er. She is no striking beauty, no keel-over gorgeousness that'd make me pitch a tent for those legs reaching from the heels to godknowswhere.
But she's no strain to the eye, either. I mean, I don't mind a lot of her. I don't mind most of her.

Her eyes are lightless and curious. They bead like the eyes of a stuffed animal, an inanimate softness with a permanent smile and an absence of thought. And though they don't sink into her marbled complexion (pale, hived, and porous about), they are cradled by the subtle billowings in the wake of the bridge of her slim nose, rouged with the deprivation of sleep, carelessness, and acceptance. Her face is long and worn, 19 going on smoker-50, as if she's got no friends, no joy, and works the day and night shifts just to pass the time. The time of an insomniac; it's somethin' else.

And simply to spite these inadequacies, god made her lips their own. A supple pout, red like an autumn Maple leaf, and looking aroused--engorged-even when she's not. And it's saddening to think that these lips may never have been touched and--at that--so rarely smile, even in the weakness of a smirk. I don't care who you are or what god you follow, you cannot unimagine your imagining of kissing her. And I imagine kissing her, slow and powerful. Slow and powerful enough for each nerve ending in her lips to meet their dopplegangers in mine (being a man of lust and not love). But what lust is carried out gentle and precious? Slow and powerful?