You are a temple. You are pillars of past, walls of art, high-arching doorways of history. You are a place of worship for some and a place to rest weary heads of others. You are for everyone who comes by you honestly and with intention and love. You are racing lines of stretch marks and roundness for grabbing. You are tense wires of electricity spanning across continents of admirers. You are small and compact and yet expansive and wanting. You ache to be touched how you like it and send out warnings to those who might not. You are witch spells in the mouth of caves.
You are the ocean, your great waves undulating seductively around massive wooden ships. You woo sailors with glints of shiny trick lighting and the sound of sirens in your shallows. You are massive and deep and salty at all of the right times. Your tide pools tremble with tiny discovery. You are the moon as it fattens, stretching out and wrapping itself in mist for seduction purposes. You are the moon that calls to the sun, waxing and waning just to show off. You are the salty-lipped beach trip, red bathing suit and round thighs soaking in admiration and sunshine.
You are a journey. You are smooth brow and heaving heart. You are saddle ass and sweaty thighs and hard memories wrapped in the finest swatches of silk under heaving breasts. You demand that cartographers with years of experience simply find the terrible softness in your hips, your lips, and your collarbone. You are unraveling miles of surprising shyness, teeth biting into pillows of lips. You are unending. Would-be suitors shade their eyes on horizons of your equator. Knights send messengers ahead to beat out the others.
You are a wild horse. You buck easily. You tame rarely. You run until you are a sheen of sweat and lust. You toss your head at danger and leap over obstacles. You are youthful and old and always free. You belong to no one. You like being asked, and you love giving it away to the worthy few. You are orgasmic, plentiful, more than enough, and ready. You are feral when cornered, and you know you can be used as a weapon in moments of danger. You are surprisingly fast when you need to be and viscous like honey when the moment begs for it.
Sweet body, you are a carriage, a mystery, a puzzle, a long road ahead of me. You support me and rarely protest when I make you do things you would rather not. You house all of my soul’s history sweetly. You make tears for when the pain is too much or the happiness spills out. You are healthy and whole, rarely sick or out of order, but instead always open for business, poppies out on the sidewalk to prove it. You are cavity-free in the teeth, with no bone ever broken and phantom bruises that sometimes tingle and then are placated by new stories and new layers.
You are still glimmering after four wars. You are the dazed smile on my lover’s face when asked to disrobe. You are the sun singing against you in your racy red bathing suit. You are the truth of standing up straight like your Papaw always told you to. You are steel beams covered by marzipan, coated in maple syrup. You belong to no one, and yet your arms open to many. Your fist remembers revolution. Your hips undulate to faraway beats. Your thighs part to receive. Your mouth pants. Your heart swells and aches for everything.