I'm going to objectify her.

She's the sexiest satin bra, smooth lines and perfect curves, the most delicate discomfort and bittersweet straps clasps padding. The best secrets undisclosed.

She's the lioness purr, soothing the captured prey held with the barest tips of unsheathed claws.

She's the horizon's yellow crescent moon cradling a bright Venus in the western evening sky.

She's the dappled riparian shade of cottonwoods and willows.

She's the touchstone, the almost tangible memory, thoughts so close as to touch taste hear smell feel the moment.

She's the wild mane of a carousel horse, flowing with the wind from the woodcarver's fingers.

She's the bottle of a long-ago favorite perfume, a delicate scent preserved in a dusty etched crystal decanter the color of rose.

She's a wild sunflower, facing the path of the sun as it rolls overhead, drowsy honeybees droning, her face drooping to slumber in the twilight.

She's the blink of a cat's eye, cunning and charm, nonchalance.

She's the weight of pure cold stream water, the liquid impermanance, the tumble and swirl, delightful in small rivulets over rocks and treacherous in deep green churning pools.

She's the electric spark that arcs between lover's lips the split second before the kiss.

She's the clarity in dreams of flying high above the face of the world, no fear, simply the touch of wind on skin, the green and blue earth and silver scatter of buildings far below.