You have dark black hair that falls far down your body, and your skin is often pale although some days now you catch the sun. Sometimes you walk or stand with a stoop because you are used to appearing shorter than you are, and you do not like to tower over those you love, but when you are angry you draw up to your full height.
Your eyes contain the world. They are not truly black, but a dark green that looks black. Your skin is soft in some places but not all and the work you have done shows in your hands and arms and back. There are scars there and lately I have noticed they come and go, but are somewhat faded. One is long and deep, along your lower back and a little around your waist, the skin shiny. You are not hairless but you do not have much of a beard. Your throat is long and sinewy and delicious.
You taste spicy and deep like the earth. You feel firm, not soft, but the kind like a good mattress that holds itself against the labours of the day. When I lie on your chest I feel you breathing and the bones at your hips and it is like a cradle I never knew.
You have presence, not the stage sort, but the kind that one appreciates at one’s back at night. Your hands curl all too frequently and that is where some of the secrets of your heart might be read, if only one had the translation. You keep your weight evenly on both feet, which is less usual than one might think. You have grace when you do not think too hard, or are not too burdened by the voices around you, but at those times you are more purposeful than graceful.