Paper Doll

Her skin is smooth and white. Her eyes are black
as coal or kohl or pencil-lead. Her hair
is never disarranged. She doesn't lack
for style or self-assurance. To be fair,
her conversation's... thin. But she's my girl—
my darling babe, my Valentine, my doll.
No sudden, unexpected depths unfurl
among the close-packed fibers of her soul,
no pitfalls on the path of love. It's sweet
to know there are no ghosts, no restless dead
that squeak and gibber in this linen sheet.
Malicious tongues, I must admit, have said
she's shallow, superficial. Pooh to that!
Romance is no less perfect, being flat.

--for Read Write Poem's NaPoWriMo prompt #8: unusual love
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