There is something anarchic in the way you twirl your hair; something uncontrollable in the rose petals that fall at your feet. The curve of your lips completes me so I am a sphere: complete in myself, still dependant on that curl, that dimple, your hips. There is something, I do not know what, which disarms me. You wave me aside with a gesture that could overthrow countries; a cobalt-textured gesture. At your feet I would gladly morph myself, become a pyramid, my revering hands at the apex. Or if you uttered the words I could box myself in perfect Golden Ratio and present my crimson self to you. If you wished, I would disregard all symmetry and shift into a trapezium so you could use my slanted back as a pedestal. There is liquid hope in spheres. Just utter the words.
