She is Jane

A midwestern girl walks along the ave. It’s more of a polite strut the way her laced boots rise and fall firmly over the red bricks.

When she laughs and twirls, the lines of her curves burst to accommodate the applause of atoms.

Every glimpse of her face is like a good yield and every smile is a flower in spring.

She moves so well that you to struggle to decipher the shape of her and all that is left is the knowledge that she is Jane and that she contains multitudes.

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