HER

How do you describe perfection? The only way I can think of it to describe the way she makes me feel, because to try and describe the physical beauty that she is would be as inadequate as saying that the sun is bright. She weakens my knees, my thighs tingle and the muscles in my upper legs feel as though they are weak from a five mile run. My torso flushes, the effect rising up my chest and sides and finalizes in my cheeks. My breathing quickens, and my pupils dilate. My nostrils flare and I have a need to push my shoulders back, to flex my arms and puff up my chest. My voice deepens and softens at the same time, and I can't think of a single coherent thing to say without sounding like a bumbling preteen in front of a, well, Her. When she smiles at me, she makes me want to be a better man. When she speaks to me, she makes me want to be the most eloquent poet to have ever lived. When she asks me a question, she makes me want to be the most learned man in the past century. When she touches me, she makes me want to take her right there, and be the best lover she's ever had. Everything she does, makes me want to be MORE, a much better version of myself. She is. . . My muse.