Because I'm still semi attached,
I'll describe her as I remember her;
physically an underdeveloped 16 year old,
hairdo in the imagined style of Joan The Warrior,
a face only France could produce every hundred years.
As regards affection, Cybil was fatal.
Were she to find in you some curiosity,
it would be but a passing fancy.
Her indulgences were not for gain,
not for kicks nor sadistic satisfaction.
What's a wick for, if not to light then to smother?
Her potter's wheel spun asexual,
and still she sculptured sensual.
Her dripping hands, her tapered fingers,
her foot persistently pushed the pedal,
the clay submitted willingly.
And me? I never was.
Cybil gave
and Cybil took.
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