He moves on all fours,
malevolence igniting fervour,
delicious in his maleness, unrelenting in his pursuit.
He circles me,
bellowing his intent,
stomping out boundaries; ominous warnings fired at other males.
He savours each battle,
bathes in their defeat,
worthy of each bloodied form; deserving of the heart he already possesses.
He captures the sweetness,
conquers with calloused fingers and tender persuasion,
whispering words, beautiful and rapturous. Fracturing me to a kneel.
He makes me feel extraordinarily female,
delicate and tiny,
hiding among sinew, distended veins and protective menace.
He’s unfolding before me,
gentleness seeping from his soul, cleansing; atoning,
this is what makes him beautiful. He’s vulnerable; like me, he’s caught by the heart.
He’s earned the right,
Don’t go into battle, you WILL lose,
for we are armed….we are armed with love.