What's she doing wrong?

How can it be done? How can you go up to buffet and get the same thing each time?
Every woman is part of a feast of sisterhood,
Every body a Pantone panoply in chocolate, coffee, spice and cream.
Artwork visages, some carnauba sleek and untouchable for fear of fingerprints,
More are inspiriting incarnations of cheekbones and eyelids that return us home.
Heights span pixie to valkyrie, and weights from waif to Willendorf.
And then there's the curves.

Is she lean and boyish? Louis XIV plush to compliment your quest for luxury?
Gaze, explore and appreciate the art.
Maybe wasp-cinched she-beast that could render adolescents unconscious with a hip-twist?
Cipher the combined coalescence and come up with numbers bigger than infinity.
Still starting, what about personality? The ineffable and infinitesimal ways it comes through.
Styles, passions, drives, desires, fashions, and the ability to intermingle incongruent emotion.
Incredulously science and math fail.

After all, how can something so big be calculated into a theorem? An equation?
What do men know about you?
Homme professes love to femme only to the most abbreviated aspects.
He trudges to the buffet as if obligated to dine by necessity alone, picking a meager plate.
He singles out aspects and fixates upon them, casting aside her other qualities,
Calling them a waste and belittling the bits he cannot focus his fetish upon.
Unable to calculate, he becomes calculating.

Now she becomes object.
Now she becomes servile.
Possession of passive love.
Sex for the sake of being straight.
Femme oblige, the girl's burden,
Tolerance or solitude. If only women could reallocate their pride.