Walking Poetry

You know the girl: the one with hair flowing voluminously in the wind with the perfect bounce corresponding to her walk.  Each foot follows the same straight line as she struts down the cat-side-walk.  Her hourglass frame is complimented perfectly with her catalog-style outfit.  Absolutely glamorous.  It is difficult to determine where her beauty ends and where it is enhanced with make-up; there are no flaws.

When she passes by, the seductive scent of her perfume lingers just enough to consume your thoughts for the next few moments.  Her passing wind seems as if a gust of fresh air, quick and crisp, traveled through the room instead.  The methodic click of her heels is all but too-distinguishable amongst the ordinary population of rubbery soles.  Her rhythm holds the most precise beat and is accompanied by a clean, determined stride that rings true and clear.

She may be out of a magazine, but in essence she is a picture in motion.  When she adds that red flower to her neutral outfit, she gives you the impression she walked off a black-and-white set.  But the next time you see her, color flows from all angles and flares from her features.  It almost overwhelms your sense of beauty, which suddenly became so sensitive.  She is entrancing: the only thing that holds your attention.  She is today’s definition of “siren” and you can’t give her enough of your gaze.

Everyone sees in three dimensions, and everything seen is visual.  However, this girl seems to paint imagery in all places, which immediately seem dull in comparison.  She makes white appear brighter than sun-illuminated snow, and red more lush than the Queen of Heart’s roses.  Black on her shoulders has never looked more Noir and her blue runs louder than the summer sky.  Somehow her gleaming eyes shine through it all with surprising ferocity.

She is that girl.  She sets the precedence for those following her footprints, and raises the standards for those who have walked before her.  She naturally brings out the “gentlemen” in the males surrounding her (why would they let her open her own door if she can help it?).  Even the normally disrespectful men cannot help but be affected by her eloquent presence.

She is silent rhymes and melodic imagery.  This girl is walking poetry.