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Ball Drops at Midnight

There’s something to be said about a woman’s face when winter hits. Her cheeks blossom to a pulp rose under the freeze that is put onto them; they almost want to burst out of their cherried container. Oh, and the lips do mesh so nicely. Whether they be lipsticked blush red or metallic silver, they have this hidden excitement/joy instilled within them. And the eyes do pucker down as the lashings flutter in melodic glances toward the gentleman across her. The tight-fitting leather/Lycra suit conforms to her soul/body so nicely that her curves (and this is a moot point rather) become less than ambiguous to the naked eye. I almost could wish her to lay down on snow just so I could lay on top and kiss those lips that have called me (again in terms not definable). Something of the synthetic looming led me to her; or whether it had been her mind, body or soul, I do not know. What I do know is that at that moment, the world would have not mattered. Not a person or persons could have stopped me in my tracks, for I would not have listened a thousand times over. And then I would once again be looking into the eyes; it’s always the eyes, you know. For our eyes to meet is comparable to the deepest of connectivity: Almost like a rapid succession of dominoes to be played onto one by another forever, eternally.