Her

People keep telling me it's her eyes. They all get lost in them apparently. Her irises compiled of trapped amber. Fossilised resin, trapping hearts like bugs for thousands of years. They tell me it's her lips. Perfect leaves of flesh, peeling back like waves from a shore to reveal her crashing swell teeth. White and sparkling like the crest of a surf. They mention her skin. Porcelain and soft in the winter, calling to be caressed and sheltered, tan and taunt in the summer, being kissed by the sun, inspiring jealousy and screaming to be claimed. They say it must be her laugh; a symphony of wind chimes, cascading down a trickling ravine. Bubbling like a champagne opened for celebration - the jubilee of youth and liberty. They tell me of her hands, delicate and flawless - tools for her every day. No, they say, it must be her allure. The way she moves to music like she's part of the air, a gust of iridescent beauty, shimmering with every change in the tune. The way she speaks with a purr, a mighty lion discreetly prowling beneath the murmur of a kitten. The way she deviates from the norm, because she's wild and she's elusive and you're never sure where her brilliant mind is at any given moment. Or maybe it's her body? Sculpted by the Gods, with her curves all working harmoniously to capture your attention. Her hair is spun gold, a waterfall of the precious metal descending to her soft shoulders. That must be it. Or perhaps it's her legs, disproportionate to the rest of her body. Long and slender, challenging a quest to discover what is at their end. It must be her personality. She of intelligence and wit. She of intrigue and understanding. She of substance. Or is it her background? Revered in social circles, she is both educated and influential. They ask me on the sly if she's a good fuck, as if she her skills between the sheets are enough to capture my heart. It must be that. She must be incredible. 

All these things, people tell me, are why I love her. They look upon her like a prize I've won, captivated and enamored by her ceaseless glamour. They look upon me with confusion. Surveying me with skeptical eyes, as they calculate my list of attributes and make the inevitable comparison. But this is their love for her. Their raw attraction and searing desire. That which gripped them the moment that they lay their eyes on her. It will stay within them fleetingly. They have to forget or they can't go on. She takes their breath away. She takes their minds away. They bumble and hush over her appeal, every aspect of her they see they compile into a list entitled 'Reasons to love her'. 

But I don't love her, not in the way I'm supposed to. Each day passes and I try to muster up adoration, as is expected of me. But she's vacuous. She's vain. She's beautiful, but she's troubled. She's needy, she's obsessive. She leaves cups all over the house and never washes up. She expects the world but does nothing to attain it. She's entitled and she never lets me chose the takeaway. She's ambitious but lazy. Granted, she is wild, but it's irksome, she never sticks to plans. I wait in restaurants for hours past our reservations to discover she's spent hours and tonnes of our money choosing a new bread maker. She never even makes bread. She never even cooks. She steals peoples heart the moment they meet her, but she's just stolen my mind. I'm beginning to despise her. Every time she's home late I cautiously hope she's been killed walking home. Targeted for her short skirt and high heels that apparently I bought. All this considered I do stay with her, she is still mine in the eyes of the lord and the rest of the world. After all she really is phenomenal in bed.