A Conquest

The Rhymer once wrote a sonnet about a woman he loved. Ah, those were the days. But here it is.

I run my hands along her curves. I feel
A subtle sinuosity; complex, but real.
I put my arms around her waist, and hold
A warm, sweet, beautiful sixteen-year-old.
I hold her tight; I take a comfy rest,
As I enjoy the softness of her breast.
I hold her tighter; my nose finds afresh
The subtle perfume of young female flesh.
Next, my desire is for the perfect kiss;
Her lips are quite impossible to miss.
I lure her to my car’s back seat; that done,
We ride to a hotel, and have some fun.
But afterwards, I think: Why was I blind?
I didn’t bother to explore her mind.