The way she walks is poetry. The way her heels click click click against the concrete—it is better than Shakespeare himself could have done. Hell, the way she walks is a fucking sonnet! She is my summer’s day, my rose, my Juliet, my wherefore art thou. The funny thing is that I’ve never seen her other than just her shoes. I see them through my apartment window which looks out upon the city sidewalk. You might think that I wouldn’t know her just by her shoes, that I couldn’t possibly love her just from looking at her shoes. But I do. Believe me, I do. It’s poetry, baby. Pure fucking poetry.  

EL Parker