Fluff

In challenge to myself,

I must find a more loving tout.

Something I can...

No.

That won't do.

My husband loves me.

The poor soul.

I am not delicate, hardly... at all.

I am like a whip, cracking against the earth.

Quick and swift, rugged across the delicately bound lace from the Earth I struck.

Air ripples around me, cross and resistant to my form,

but we mold each other, for I am bold.

When I dress?

I dress in the likes of femininity,

hardly boorish but nothing... perverse. For I know the ways a man's mind might converse.

Try to guess at my body, make jabs in ways.

I like to tease my husband in the best of our youngest days.

For there is no guessing to be had with little clothes, and I am not Roxanne. I'm not a whore out for show.

If only my personality was more feminine.

Poor man.

He's probably missing out.

He said he doesn't mind it too much, but I can read the doubt.

He loves me.

Loves me fiercely.

A passion I've never written so,

but in my attempt to find something dainty and loving,

I find I am hardly a doe.

I am rough, rigid, and thrilling, but hardly the dainty, loving and willing.

So I write today,

tonight,

tomorrow,

in passion to my husband's delicate compassion,

to give form to his burning desire,

so that I can show him a more mirrored love.

I love you, my dearest husband.

I love you so.

You managed to pick a uneven tempered stallion so.