Darling. Did you know that despite your strength, I want to wrap you up in my arms and protect you? You don't need protecting because you are strong. You go out into the world to fight your battles, to live well, and expect that everyone wants the best for all mankind, as you do. They don't. It must be sad, sometimes. I want to be there when you're sad, if you want me to be, to wrap my arms around you, to give you a soft place in the world and to tell you that you're beautiful and kind, and so gentle that it makes me ache to touch you. You're not gentle when campaigning, but your voice is strong and cadent. I have listened to you over waves, oceanic and digital, just to hear you speak about drones, though you never drone. You mean what you say. You speak with certainty. Your voice is as smooth and creaking as planed wood, the floorboards in my house that I know every inch of the way. Though I don't know you so intimately. I want to. I want to relax into your voice. I want to be in your arms, close to your chest, so that I can hear it from the inside as I drift off to sleep. I want to hear you all the time, my love.
You were a life model, and I remarked that it was brave. You said that everyone had said that, and that that must not bode well for your body. Au contraire, my darling. Your body is perfect. It is small and soft, and when I imagine you and I, I don't imagine a hard, photorealistic versimilitude of a corpus. I imagine you. I imagine a body that has given life to two children, a body that has worked, a body that still works, and that is lovely. I imagine a body that is yours, a body that ages and progresses, whose cells are still reproducing, whose owner is intelligent, and soft, and kind. In short, you. Anyone drawing you would be privileged to do so. That, my love, is a privilege.
You are beautiful.
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