v u l v a l i c i o u s
�But I do adore you � every part of you from heel to hair. Never will you shake me off, try as you may.�
I've told you that you're adorable, but you don't seem to catch my meaning.
You think I am comparing you to a woodland creature, something with soft lines nestled low in a bed of wildflowers. That I see you as a baby, all tenderness and delicate parts. You hear "adorable" and think "gentle." You think I want to cup you in my hands and coo at you softly until you sleep there, nestled snug and safe.
I'm here to tell you you're wrong.
In speaking of my adoration, I'd rather you referenced religious fanatics, praying for hours, without ceasing, knees to the ground and bodies tight, bending and bowing at sharp angles. I want you to think of the way a bird guards its nest, attacking those who come too close. Not afraid to be vicious when necessary.
When I say you are adorable, I mean that I love you near the point of worship. That when you're hard I find myself cursing my inability to soften more, to conform to your newly sharpened lines. I am a zealot for you, occasionally proselytizing. Spreading the gospel of my love.
I adore your head, your mind, your wit. Your hair, surely, when I tug at it the way you pull at me, hard and unceasing, mooring me, keeping me close.
I adore your shoulders, torso, trunk, the sturdier parts of you that hide your heart and your gut. Those tender parts. Oh! If I could I'd reach in and trace them one by one, soft and sweet, one bloody finger forever consecrated. Washed in the blood of my love.
I adore your legs and feet, your heel and toe, the curve of your instep. I've laid down at your feet and let you walk miles over my back, all because it's you that I adore. And I've clung to you, too, like a shard of glass stuck beneath the skin at the ball of your foot. Pressing into you as you reach up. I am insistent, incessant.
I make no apologies for adoring you.