God’s Finest Gifts

a st.valentine’s special.

her eyes, an angel’s. her legs, the pride of the eyes: long and demanding attention. the way she walked, like she was eternally stepping on glass shards: she hardly touched the floor. at least that’s what it seemed to me.

if i am to admit i am a man stricken by love, afflicted with emotions, what does that make me? flesh and blood, like the rest of you. a mortal, affected by the fickle complexities that bewail you, simpletons.

but oh, her words; the crescendos, the diminuendos, music to me. the way she spoke on every subject, the expert. i was comfortable for once, not bothering to mansplain or speak in the bewildering grammar of politics and society, things i did not know or care for.

and when she was done speaking, i would stare at her lips, its imperfect upward curves at the edges, or remember the pause that left them open all of two seconds—the unavoidable sexiness of her actions.

i had heard her speak, and now i wondered if she tasted as good as she sounded. maybe if i kissed her, i would find god’s finest gifts.

happy valentine’s day.



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