I could write a book on you.
Lines mark boundaries, your hair an unwoven curtain.
There are some places that not even the sun can touch you.
I could write a novella of those eyes, dark sad depths that they are.
A sonnet for your hands alone, a quatrain for your lips and
a few disjointed lines for every bend. A line each for muscles;
biceps, triceps, abdominals, pectoralis, the slope of trapezium, the tight lines
of gluteals and quadricepts. A haiku for your jawline; diamond pattern
refrain for your aquilanic features. A book for you, my love, to treasure
when I slow with age, we both our own slow velocity to our literary end.