fantastic pretense

Crimson locks frame a flawless face,
curvaceous form, a perfect space
and better,
Her scent undoubtedly some cruel concoction of sex and perfume,
infatuation, my doom.
So let her
strut in like she's the shit
she knows she can.
What wins her, sharpened wit?
Nah. Pussy running that hot demands
physical reciprocation.
Of course I'll dream, a recurring sequence:
We fuck, we talk, a fantastic pretense.
But that's it.