He loved the way she smelled,
and that she sprayed her perfume right before bed,
so that he could smell it as he drifted off.

He loved the way she gave him her sardonic playful scoff,
when he did something silly, because although she hated it,
she loved it so much she couldn't contain it.

He loved when she walked through history her fires were lit.
Because her passion always intrigued him,
it made perfect sense within her soul, making her eyes bright.

He loved the way she held him tight,
when she was scared, or happy, or hiding from the light.
Because she was so strong yet sometimes her heart she would bare.

He loved the way she ran her fingers through her hair,
and wiggled her waist when she was pleased.
She didn't even know she did it, she was just so at ease.

He loved the way she squeaked when she let out a sneeze,
such a fragile noise for a spirit that was so tough.
Such a contradiction his little, soiled dove.

He could not have been more in love,
with all of these things she does,
no matter what kind of ordeals....

Or at least...that is what she hopes he feels....