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This isn’t the kind of love poem where I tell you that I drown in the liquid amber of your eyes, or that your touch makes my skin hum like a hive of bees in a heatwave.  This love is not new and it knows more than eyes and skin, it goes deep, through bloody muscle into bone and sinew. I feel you in my bones because you have rooted yourself there. Made yourself a home in my skeleton, your fingers, know not just my breasts, but the ribs they sit upon, and that greedy muscle whom they cage.

You love me not in spite of my filthy heart  – but because of it­­­.
And I am not easy to love
I am arrogant, vain, dramatic, and exacting.
I am the kind of woman that a Disney illustrator would light from below, surrounded by billowing smoke and cowering henchmen

I don’t take anyones shit – but I am utterly grateful that you take mine.
When my stormy countenance rages and I am thunder
You do not cower, you do not flee, you do not erupt
And when I howl in suffering, my face a river,
You do not go in search of shelter
You weather these storms because these are the seasons of your country

When asked why you don’t prefer a more temperate climate,
You seem genuinely shocked, by so daft an inquiry
She is a wonder you reply.
Her laugh is the  Aurora Borealis, shimmering ribbons of rainbow lights dashing across a velvet sky
Her heart is the mighty Amazon, its tributaries coursing through every part of her body, refreshing her spirit with compassion unbounded
Her shoulder are Everest, snowcapped mountains of the highest height.  Reaching for the moon and landing among the stars.
I live among such transcendence, and you’re concerned about the weather?

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