Hides behind the easy layers of taffeta and organza draped over the figure of each word. Each word she wants to caress with love but instead strokes with lust. The identity of a sentence is entwined with its sweetheart.
I married a senetence, a complete sentence!
Her friends are jealous of her, each a goddess of a different vanity. The disco lights at the end of the velvet corridor are playing Fur Elise.
She cries when only her jewelry is looking. The earrings enjoy it. She loves her sentence in a way only a prose poem artisan can, clause by clause. Subject, verb, object or some variation of that also. But also in the multitudes of pleasureful avenues of the sentence are a neon purple bordello of words, and each curves so she sees herself in every adjective, breeding texture into life.
