Two hands two legs a head shoulder neck and trunk all of which you possess do not make you special.
Your legs are graceful and smooth, hinting at the hidden delight that a roving hand might enjoy, the hips are neither wispy nor plumb. Just the right proportion to balance the soft mounds which swing with it, the stomach flat, all the more alluring for reflecting, the exquisiteness of the hips at one end and the burgeoning apices at the other… both mounds hidden but tantalizingly pert. The hands dainty, never without a purpose… always seem to be charged, transferring a tingling sense of electricity whenever your hands glance upon mine. The eyes, lips and cheeks conspiring in their quest to rival the suns radiance, the voice sirenic, compelling the audience by its sheer ability to raise one above the throng.
It is those memories we call ours, the scars that tell our story, the smile that no one can copy, the thought of you that no one can replace, the racing heart with which I acknowledge that ring tone that I designated to you, the laughter that permeates our conversations interlaced by those moments of intellectual discourse and the fact that you dare me…dare me to give up my inhibitions and just dwell in that place where your feelings and mine are the manna that sustain us.
That my lady, is what makes you special…
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