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He's beautiful, and you whisper it against his neck.
He can never sit still or shut up, even now, pinned beneath you in an ocean of sheets with his shirt unbuttoned. He's squirming, chuckling to himself, saying things you don't hear because his beauty drowns them out. You slide his glasses off his nose. His eyes are spacious skies condensed to drops of blue, standing out in stark contrast to his skin. You freckle and burn in his summers; he turns a lovely shade of copper and gets sunny streaks in his tawny hair.
You tangle your fingers in amber waves and pull his head close to capture his lips, softly, deeply. His endless energy is infectious, and every kiss gives you butterflies like it's your first.
He likes the weight of history in you, stone and gold and blood, kings and crumbling empires, mystery and romance. You like the breath of youth in him, idealism and naïveté, untameable wilderness, mountain majesties you can't scale. You ruled the world but you never managed to master this tousle-headed upstart. He's a land of patriot dreams, the sort of man who can achieve the impossible effortlessly but can't muster one mote of common sense. Though you'd never admit it, you even like that unpredictable spark of revolution in his eyes. The chains of tradition that bind you are mere cobwebs to him. He's power and freedom and beauty—the chaotic beauty of an avalanche, a hurricane. He sweeps you away.
You sit back and run your hands over the fruited plains of his chest, his stomach, the love handles he's so ashamed of. His body's topography is as varied as his land, from deserts to pine forests, sweltering bayous to frozen lakes. You feel the quivering of his muscles, the rhythm of his heartbeat, his ragged breath. He's exhilarating, overwhelming, every cell a new adventure.
He thinks he's a simple man. Sometimes he wonders if he really even has a culture. But you see him in all his tension and complexity. You notice when he calls himself we, because he's a many-faceted diamond, every colour at once, the reflections constantly shifting, ever united and ever at war with himself. Still being refined, he already shines so much brighter than he ever did as a jewel in your imperial crown.
You say his name, America, America, drawing it out, making love to each syllable. It's not a name you gave him. What a fool you were for not realising sooner that he never really belonged to you, or anyone. For all his pious posturing, you doubt he'd take orders from God Himself. You were only ever one piece in this expansive messy mosaic of a man.
Your eyes flick back up to his face. He meets your gaze and smiles so wide there are crinkles around his eyes and dimples in his cheeks. It's a level of emotional openness you seldom feel at liberty to express. Maybe that's what freedom is to him: never holding himself back. He plunges headfirst into each new wave of adversity, each new chapter in his glory-tale of liberating strife, always radiating that insufferable yet indomitable fighting spirit. Always smiling.
He's beautiful, and you love him from sea to shining sea.