Fingers float softly like dandy puffs in the wind,
tracing her bones which make hills like a desert.
Her skin is as soft as a new rose bloom,
Her lips pink, slightly parted, delicate as a feather.
Perfection in every way, skin pale as the moons reflection in a pond,
eyes as blue as the angry sea, hair as long as wheat, golden blonde.
My love for her is radiating off my own skin,
her wispy lashes fall shut as my touch closes in.
She is perfection; the moon, sun, wind, stars.
She traces my own ridges on my skin: my scars.
She makes my heart race and my skin feel like home.
I go back to tracing her delicate dancer bones.