Do you see her own power in the grip of her hands? As she maps out the sway that her will commands? Do her hips look like hope, as they crash against yours? A breaking of waves on impossible shores? Tell her, when the world shrinks to this heat, to this sound, does she look like she’s lost? Or profoundly found? Does she look like a question you’re aching to solve? Or the beautiful answer to all your resolve? She needs to know how the vision unfolds - the story of ecstasy your gaze holds. For she feels like a storm, like a psalm, like a fall… but tell her, my love, what does she look like at all?
