Her name is Karla

There are times in my life when I question my worthiness. My mind, an everlasting carousel of self doubt, continually investigating why, of all the men on this earth, she picked me, a man who does not match her intellect, who is inferior to her courage, and secondary to her kindness.

Each time I stare into those marvelous brown eyes, I'm overcome with emotions. A wave of infatuation washes over my frame, a stiff chill slithers down my spine, my knees rattle, hands shaking, I am weak. Locking eyes, she pierces my soul, penetrating my bullshit with disregard for the tumultuous past of excessive excess.

I am grateful.

I am fortuitous.

I am indebted.

I am blessed.

I am many things, because her.

She is not defect less, but I remain ignorant to her flaws, while I obsess the outlying curves of her silhouette, marinating on the chance my lips may seize the opportunity to caress hers, as my hands gently graze the small of her back.

Owner of my love, receiver of my compassion, I am a servant to her needs, at her beckon call, incessant to make her happy and provide her with pleasure, my obligation is to oblige this angel sent from the heavens, just for me.

Her name is Karla and she is my queen.

Sweet, sweet Karla, will you ever appreciate what you mean?