You don't know the half…

Oh, my love…

You don't know the half of what I want to do with you.

To you.

You don't know the half of what those hips, that smile do to me…

You don't know the half of how very little sleep you'll be getting. The half of how much time my hands will spend exploring. The half of how long I could just look into your eyes…

I could tell you, oh I could write you some beautiful words explaining it all, putting images in your mind that would make you blush like you've never blushed before. And it still wouldn't be the half of it.

You do something to me, woman, something science can't begin to explain. Something the poets and the artists and the dreamers all strive to put into their work. Effortlessly, without even trying. Just by being… you.

And still, even having read this… you still don't know the half of it.

The nights I lie awake, thinking of you.

My body's response to even the merest hint of you…

The way my soul calls out to you, longing like the world has never known, aching just to be allowed time in the same space as you, even if just for a moment…

Oh my love, no… I could show you.

But you still wouldn't know the half of it.