If I could, I would talk about it all day. I wouldn’t stop. I could keep going. On and on. I could write a book, novels, about how much I love you. I can write poetry up and down, over and over again. In a sense of it all, it would be the same idea repeated but just different words combined. I could write a book on your hands alone. About how strong they are, and how when you’re calm, your veins are raised and how when you’re mad, they almost burst. I swear. I could write about your dirty fingernails and how you crave the earth beneath them. Or how when you reach climax, your mouth opens just slightly and your lips quiver and you let out a little sound that graces my ears so perfectly and how your eyes roll back and your eyelids shutter so quickly. It’s like watching the creation of a beautiful masterpiece. Who am I kidding, you are a masterpiece. God, you’re so beautiful.