There are some women that men write poems about. The dancers.

They praise them, their beauty, their grace. Their eyes follow them as they float and dance. They lead them, sweep them featherlight across a floor, twirl them and push them this way, and that. They adore them. And the dancers float on, happy to be adored.

Then there are the other women. The writers.

These are the stubborn, proud, self-reliant women. The women, who, however much they might want to be led, find themselves unable to simply follow. At first, you might wonder why any man would choose these women. But then you realise....

We are the women who write poems about them.

We let them know they are valued and treasured, not for what they can give us, or do for us, not for where they can lead us, but for who they are. We wave the spotlight away, so it can fall on them.

And so, we are loved.