Our parts of which we speak...

I enjoy the way your verbs
  taste, stroke and titillate
  my hut of flesh and its resident soul.

I endure the way your adjectives
   desire to describe the details of beauty.
  Adjectives are paintings of dawn:
  they strike sulphur,
  but they do not emblazon my vision with brilliance.

I revere the nouns that name
  the person, place and thing that you are.
  Every appellation I use provides
  another reference to the benevolence of you.

I hate the pronouns assigned to design ourselves,
  for enwrapping yourself in pink
  won't disguise the cries of your mannish side
   and my anima is pregnant with a passion to reproduce.

I appreciate the conjunction that you have grown to be.
  You are the “And” that facilitates my spirit's state
  By using the adhesion of compassion.

I adore you for the prepositions that grant these facts:
  I am on a bed of beatitude with you.
  We do what we want for joy's geysers,
  experiencing satisfaction after the flow.

I titter at the interjections
we use as illustrations of our jubilation.
  The exclamations are sillier
  than children chortling on a carousel.