The Literal Literary Woman

She scribbles herself into perfection.
You admire her through her salacious pen
And reading her last quirky selection
You yearn to make her yell-out ‘when’.

But only jealousy flares when you read
About the man who rips her shirt from her
And you think that you could fulfil her needs,
To nibble her neck and nuzzle her fur.

She’s always a dark, smouldering girl,
Like an Amazon from a comic book;
Of course you’re the man to make her toes curl,
But why would she give you a second look?

There, on her page, you can be her Heathcliff –
With her your Cathy or just Juliet?
She’s a puzzle to solve, a hieroglyph.
You can own her books, just not her heart, yet.