She was a werewolf in panties,
a person for whom the world opened
its great gaping mouth, rimmed in teeth
that she tiptoed over, that she slunk between.
Her spell was as silent and as fierce
as the thoughts between raindrops;
there was an intent and a target to their fall,
the way in which her every finger
caressed an arm or pushed a lock of hair.
She was the most dangerous thing
to ever walk in lavender, smelling of honey
and inspiring the words "sex" and "kitten"
used in startling proximity.
There was an hypothesis running
that inside she was broken, powerless,
a refugee of abuse from a secret face,
and to this idea she laughed.
It shook her little twig body as she stomped
on another man, another city, another theory
struggling for air under a pointed stiletto.
Three seconds of sexy stare were all she needed,
shaded by a white umbrella, but flashing
the scarlet red of a devilish garter.
I know she laughed through life, all to death;
I know that no one, nothing stopped her.
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