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At Our Feet [Mar. 21st, 2014|04:40 am]
She smells of vanilla scented oils. Her golden locks of hair blowing gently in the much needed breeze. And she makes me think of lilacs. Lilacs in the summertime. Oh, and she makes me wonder.

She makes me tremble.

Paralyzed at my knees.

Her eyes are soft blue pearls that sparkle well beyond the starlight, while I the simple and restless ocean churn in captivity beneath her slender feet.

She makes me a desperate lover.

She makes me hardened and undiscovered.

Spellbound by her decadence, her sensual presence, and the ancient magic of her sorcery.

There is no method to the motive that has carried me here from the heart of New Orleans.

There exists not words that can be penned upon parchment that aptly describe the passion for which I feel.

You are far more than can possibly be imagined, a beauty well past paint brushes and still photography.

Oh, and how you know me.

You know every part of me.

So woefully incomplete.

See, I once fancied myself an artist.

A trickster of many pretty words spun quite effortlessly.

Until I met you, and I understood I was no artist at all. I was just a charlatan -- a fallen angel -- and you were the seraph sent to change my life from partial and broken to polished and complete.

I never knew of heaven until I found myself in your arms, such a comfort, such a wonder, a splendor I had never believed.

Then I fell once more.

Only now I rise to stand beside you.

You, the platinum beauty, truly a treasure unlike any this world has ever seen.

And I your greatest reclamation -- always there should need arise.

The world at our feet.

© Brian Milici
March 21, 2014

May you always find your smile.