She unapologetically loves each and every crevice of her canvas. Each part regally resonates to the woman who birthed her. Each part elegantly exudes the exuberance of its own beauty. The curves on her body are more than just her dress or jean size. More than the heads of men which turn as she walks down the street. Her curves are her heritage – a beautiful sign of where home is. Through pain she found love and through love she found herself. We meet in the pages of our story where the ink intimately holds us together. These words I write become intertwined in the veins of our loving hearts. In the rain of her presence, my words will always form a rainbow. I can never get enough of her love; I’m always left yearning for more. In a world ravaged by cold wars, we both know what we’re fighting for. She has never spent a day letting the world turn her starry sky into a ceiling. She wears her crown proudly and embraces the queen that she is. The curves on her body are more than just her dress or jean size. More than the whistles which dissipate the silence as she enters the room. Her curves are her heritage – a beautiful sign of where home is. The world is my canvas and I hope this African queen will always be my muse.