Beneath verdant, still waters she slips and flits. A soft brown slick of mud, this she wears for her hair. Sharp green, frog’s eyes, with these she sees above, the heavy pond scum.
She is vain – but not too proud; nevertheless, no slime is allowed to stain or stick on her smooth, wet, slick and perfect pale green skin. She sees. She knows. She looks to the shore, in that deep grey wood, from her placid yellow pond, to spy pretty lips. She just wants a kiss, but beware.
Be aware: she needs no breath. You wouldn’t either if you could love her, and never leave her. She could show you the ways, of still, slow, wet days beneath waters deep and brown. Though, none yet have loved her, and many have drowned. Their slime stripped bones stick and sit in the dredge below.
Still though, she waits and wants for love. Many, many she’s kissed, so many women and men. Still, she slips and flits and cries muddy tears and feels the long years. She must hold onto hope ‘til the end.