Let us begin...
You will wonder who she is, what she owns, that makes her the subject of my attention… I will try to show you then… not what she owns, but how futile it is to try to describe the beginnings of her charm.
Let us begin, then… but from where? My woman is like a sea. Though the sea is a coming together of a great many things, it isn’t actually any of those things. And like the sea, she has no actual beginnings.
To some at the beach, it begins at the shore. To the man at the center of the sea, it begins at the horizon. To the man at the eye of the storm, the sea simply is—no beginnings, no ends… except for his own.
Maybe you are beginning to grasp the problem… the hardship we are about to face. But that is the knowing of your mind. Let us take it up to the point where it becomes a knowing that your mind and your heart agree with. Let us begin…
Not like a rainbow...
Perhaps it would be best to start with a name, as names own the owner more than the owner owns the name. To understand a name is to know its owner. Sadly, her name isn’t mine to give, so we must stick to descriptions.
And all that comes to mind are colors—all the colors. Not like a rainbow; I’ve always disliked that example. A rainbow doesn’t even begin to capture half of my woman’s colors.
Imagine a blue dress that shifts gracefully to dark green when the light hits it differently. Now imagine an endless array of colors from every angle, every viewpoint—no two the same. This is more like it. That is the feel of her name in my mind. I could tell you the words that form her name, but you wouldn’t get it.
Words do not do colors justice, and colors barely do her name justice.
Maybe at this point, you’re skeptical about moving on. You’ve heard enough. She is perfect. But you couldn’t be more wrong. My woman is far from perfect, as would be made abundantly clear to those who listen to the end.
In your mind's eyes...
Let us consider her grace. Maybe if you have ever held a broken colored glass, you may know what I speak of. It might not seem so strange to you as it would to others.
You see the glass and you know it is beautiful. You twist and turn it, watching the colors bend as the light hits from different angles. Yet you hold it with delicate hands—not too tight, lest it cut deep, not too free, lest it slip and shatter.
Yes, this is a wonderful description. Beauty with danger, with uncertainty, with fragility… a technical and unexpected combination that comes from knowing the beauty you possess.
I will never go so far as to assume that she is the finest of women. She is short to a fault. Her eyes are dark brown, like ours, maybe the faintest shade lighter. She doesn’t have the long, graceful legs you see in the movies. She has legs, though, and she has grace. Her ebony skin is a shade lighter than mine. God was kind to her.
Again, I stress: if you came in some form of contact with my woman, you probably wouldn’t see what I see. It isn’t for your eyes.
A part of you might see it, though, deep in your mind’s eyes. You will see, and you will know, that she is beautiful.
So.. a storm, a beautiful thing...
This has taken me the longest time to conceive… for understandably good reasons, of course. Have you ever been in a storm before? Only if you have will I expect that you even have the slightest idea what it feels like to be in bed with my woman.
You have to understand, though—I am taking you into the deepest parts of my mind. I am crossing barriers I know shouldn’t be crossed, all in my bid to pass a message across.
So… a storm, a beautiful thing... Dangerous. Sure to be the last thing you would experience… but still, beautiful beyond mortal comprehension. The order in its chaos.
I would say she loves like a storm. The smell of her is like the moments before rain, like wet earth and some rainbow dust. She moves with a grace I cannot comprehend, plays a complex tune on my strings, makes me taut on all ends, eases me into the sexual melody.
It takes all of me to match her complexity—a dangerous task. I never know if it will be my last… and yet, I never want to not experience her love over and over again.
The futile exercise...
Now, let us advance. Imagine my woman with all of these qualities… all these complexities. Take her not-too-dark eyes and place them on her not-too-light ebony skin. Take the grace of a thousand colored shards of glass and twirl it around her being.
Hold your breath and begin the futile exercise that is imagining her name. Thrust it upon the graceful being we’ve conjured in our minds.
Now proceed to imagine this very being loving like a storm, a delicate art where every stroke could be the last, try not to get lost in the beauty of the imagination
Now hold on to this imagination.. do not let it escape your mind, try your very best to understand the magic that you are witnessing in your mind
Now let the anger and frustration of not being able to maintain this ethereal projection burn clean through your heart. Let it corrode your entire being.
Let the futility of the exercise possess you and send you spiraling, all so you can acknowledge the endless layers that my woman possesses.
I have spent what seems like an eternity with her, and I am yet to understand all of her. I have devoted myself to the craft that is knowing Boluwatife. I shall do it till my last day.