Her

She says she's 'uncomfortable' with the way she looks as she flips through the pages of her Vogue magazine.
I tell her she's crazy because she doesn't need to be skin tight for me to feel her hip bones.
She doesn't need her collar bones to tower out like mountains just so I can find a landing strip no -
my lips have traced her maps more times than I can count.
They say your body is a temple, I say her body is so much more.
Her body holds a story that you have to read in brail and even then you can only hope you understand what she means when you're finished with her pages.
She is magnificent.
She is glorious.
She is the beginning of my eternal ending and all I can ask is that she writes just one more page,
maybe one with me in it
so that I can point it out to her that before she is finished
there is someone that exists only to remind her that no matter how many pictures she tears out of her magazines -
those photos will never compare to the novel full of unspoken words she gives to the world.