Crushed

You... have a body -

that could make me want to objectify you.

However, I have far more respect for you than that.

You... have lips -

that I can only imagine taste like,

bad puns.

And good stories,

And great poetry.

You... have hands - 

that feel soft,

but feel callus.

Hands that feel, in mine,

like a sun shower on a hot summer's day;

Not where fate intended,

but that's why it's so refreshing anyway.

You... have feet -

that have travelled many miles.

That have worn out many souls.

Feet that, to be fair,

could stomp me out if I am not careful.

You... have a heart - 

that pumps melancholy breakbeats

through cracked and bloodstained veins.

A heart that is rich in things that rich men do not value.

You... have eyes -

that tell their own story.

Eyes that I could get lost in.

And I'm not talking corn maze or 5 yr old in Dominion "lost."

I'm talking Castaway, Titanic, or Life of Pi "lost."

What I mean, is being lost in the middle of the ocean,

and swimming for your f*****g life because you have no other choice.

You... have style -

that could topple Troy,

While everything changes

you endure.

Style that may not be kevlar,

but all your dresses seem to be bulletproof;

You will never need my protection.

You... have a mind - 

that if a team of the world's top scientists attempted to unravel and unwind,

it would stretch for eons.

A mind that is less boomerang,

going and coming,

sprinting here then there

And more arrow,

tumbling over the horizon and marathoning back to center.

I ask that we do not trouble the mathematician with this formula.

They will experience grief.

Respond with only a look of disbelief.

When I explain that even after...

All of this,

you are still more than the sum of your parts.