Your bones are the structure of your statue. The way you move like a jellyfish so fluid. The flick of your legs that run for miles and I am extremely intrigued by where you have been. Your skin, the perfect cup of coffee with just the right amount of milk. Your lips are like sugar cookies. The hair on top of your head is this turf of excellent surf, like a wave of angel hair spaghetti mixed up by the ocean. A beautiful mess all half hazard and a strayed from bed by the most perfect of lazy days. Your teeth are delicate pieces of peppermint gum saving behind them a bubble gum tongue. Feet, sturdy and keep you grounded. I want to know if your knees buckle like any century women once described. I want to swim in your possibly deranged mind and weave a bed there. So that I can admire your canvas all the while thumbing through your private possessions and admiring your private possession. Talking with touches and vocabulary, heightening the indifference and ruling out all possibilities of small parts and small talk.