Of the Unlovable

This is about someone who continuously considers themself to be a monster. I politely decline.

The fluid of your speech is admirable
with an intelligence so fine-honed.
Your eyes have moved from clear to coal,
from hair of once spun gold
to raven-dark locks that might shine
were they less oil-slick.
Those eyes of yours are sunken
with molasses thoughts so thick.

A cinnamon screamer, without the screamer.
Chili or chocolate chai spice
so furious, delectable, dessert for my senses
but never the same flavor twice.
Lips firm and soft are mine again,
a look of remarkable fervor
in the dark of your eyes, your hair, your voice,
ambrosia, my vision a blur.

You are no monster, darling, no,
regardless of what you say.
I would choose your silken embrace
over another any day.