There is no accounting for the love an aging body can draw out of me. My lover's body openly sings of the years we have lived together, experiencing life, its ecstasies and tragedies. Every mark on her is verse upon verse of exquisite prose. It draws me in to her because we have made them together, and deeper still, on occasion, have inflicted them on each other. Her body has not aged but has been sculpted, politely so, and is present with me, a living work given to me. There is no explaining this to the dullness of youthful love. This love has to be lived to receive; the aged body of splendor.
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