Not much a mercantile success, but men, belonging to variant strata of living were prepared to die for her, ready to leave their wives in sleep, and once a young lad created a whole lot of hooligan, during her performance in a lavish theatre, hurting, slitting fellow young men who claimed to be in love with her.
She was intoxicating with her eyes gold brown as Hogshead whiskey and her smell would be powerful to knock anyone fondling her.
I envied her. The luminescent glow, her crisp and foxy moves, the dissolving eyes, hair meant only for her carefully carved face, even the bottle tricks, I cursed the ‘bitch’ for her every damn possession.
The sharp cat clawed my fiancée in her beauty. She stormed my life like a dreadful ache, unbearable to face. Each sight of her, prompted me to gift ominous words to her.
A day passed without her. Another. Another again.
Alluring actress with a spellbinding performance.
She remained in a secret veil all the remaining times of her life. Strange folks ready to serve her, heightening the stars already added to her spell but she preferred being obscure. Her this intimacy saved her commercial persona, not much for an enterprise’s sake.
I hate myself for buying her portrait. I hate even more the ones who are selling it, embroidered, beautifully crafted, preserving every grain of her emotion, presenting every darn part of her beauty. And the most, I hate her, still the very same.
They say, she died of depression, too acute to be nerved down. The truth echoes.
The cat was so playful in herself, that none could master her. ( I prefer laughing, though I have doubts )