She does not know anything except her trusted friend. Me. We are alone. She is occupied with a cartoon on television, sitting comfortably in my lap, her back pressing softly into my chest. The smell of shampoo in her hair, washed just moments before, drives me insane with love for her. I touch her ears and she grabs my hand lightly and squeezes it. She loves my touch. I cannot say that I love anything about her because the word “love” does not even come close to how much I crave her, her touch, her complete person. I am oblivious to what surrounds the two of us. I see her form, I hear her quiet breathing – oh those whisps of breeze I have breathed in to me – straight from the gorgeous source many times. I smell all pheromones she graces the air surrounding us with. I feel the weight of her body pressing down onto my being.

I kiss her neck as she tilts her head to one side to allow me a touch of my lips to her cool, fragrant skin. She, the goddess I worship so deeply – so passionately with every fiber of my being – places my hand delicately against her face and my heart bursts into flames. I can no longer resist my craving; I place her gently on the sofa and lie beside her, staring into her return stare, falling dizzily into those deep sparkling eyes, embracing her body with a soft hug only I can give her. She moves to get more comfortable as I unbutton her pajamas. She smiles knowingly, hand on my hand as I work to relieve her of the cotton top that was part of the goddess it adorned.
I cannot write further for fear that someone would find the words combined in the manner I wish, to be a heinous crime.

What is it that defines the female anatomy of a little girl to be so different from the anatomy of an adult one? What is it that defines the female personage of a little girl to be so different, as well?

Vive la difference.