Tribute to Lolita

Naked, you sit. Innocence, a simple other forbearance you cradle.
Water Nymphs can become water, flowing between themselves and that cool element- hair dripping and growing translucently, eyes of a doe watching you as you slip, disrobed, into them.
Forest Nymphs dance between trees, seeing nothing but their kin and feeling their feet slip between blades of grass; sad hellos whispered to flowers as a bit of pale light shares a rare moment with an upturned palm. It caresses the pale green skin of its love, and she glows, and all despairs as she has no love for him back. She dances for him, because that’s all she can give.
So, my Lolita, you are a Nymphet. As I caress you, you watch, silently, naught said- slipping into that air around you, disappearing with eyes and ears that sense everything, nothing, as I slip, disrobed, into you. You dance around me, slipping into the air as this is all you can give me- me, all eyes hands and engorged tool.
One day you will be all fire, bronzed naked skin and swollen, pointed nipples, cherry blonde hair covering all the nothings as the air plays its games, pushing and pulling at will. Your movements will be passion, and hate, and love- and there will be no forgiveness, no doe in your eyes.
You will make a man lucky.
Nymphet, lovely epang, child of my heart, ignorant, insolent, downy life of limbs, you are a child no longer.
Yearning to crawl closer to you, to caress any portion I may- you curb and curdle advances with readily grown claws.
O life, o love, pouting lips and bronzed back, curved hips and trouncing… lack, or décor I shall speak of, averting eyes and mind from more delicate parts of. Your body, my sin.
Dear reader, judge not word spoken again and again of spawned beauty from impure love, impure child from impure youth.
Dance!
Sing freedom, as a woman, you are your own repellent- malice, made particularly to keep bugs as me shunned,
Kisses frowned away; dolts as me are stolen from, readied gaze.
Oh! Keep her, child of the night! Keep her mine, youth of clichéd rose! Keep her, store her as you would a specimen, and share her with no-one but those godly affairs even the youth share in.
Surely the tap-dance of my tongue deserves even that, slowed though her steps may be?
Lolita, become not a house-wife, a burden-
Stay a young lover, stay chained, and stay free-
Stay the trip of my tongue on my teeth as yours, down your smooth stomach, over your lips, forming those words with you-
Despair!