Her.

Her skin

The flesh raises in singular bumps, tiny mountains rise, 

they form the patterns on her skin as her hairs stick straight up. 

The repercussions of my touch. 

Her hair

To her is something that grows on her head, 

to me is her story. 

She smells good there. She carries the follicles that grow into potential. 

She carries her identity. 

Her smile

The radiant burst of energy that comes. 

It could fool death, the mortal. 

Her feet

They meet each other as she lays down, connected with my flesh. 

Her stretch marks

that wrap around her juiciest curve.

They hug the line of her hips.

All I want to do is kiss every single tree branch where they appear and multiply,

until each and every one melds into the veins that course through my skin.

I stare at the beauty that is her imperfection.

Even when she turns away, the embarrassed pink hue creeping upon her face.

I want to keep staring, my eyes lingering, wavering over the body that holds this beauty.

Her laugh

The thing that carries me over to the next day.

She is nothing but these things. She is everything except these things. She is the thing that alludes me and in that place I harbor my love.