I would crawl to the ground to where you stood, not daring to look up to your face. Letting me worship your feet would be all I deserve. My lips and tongue, usually only used to kiss the one I love, would lick and kiss every inch of the ground around you as a show of gratitude. The ground sanctified, I would move to your right boot, starting from the bottom, and clean it with my lips and tongue until it was pristine, then move to the left and do the same. The smell of the leather and your skin would have me in a daze. If you would be gracious enough to remove those boots and let me worship your feet, I’d massage them until my hands cramped, knowing that’s the only slight pleasure I could ever bring you. Their scent alone would set my mind buzzing, barely able to think. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from kissing your toes, soles, arches, devouring them with my lips, until you inevitably stopped me, shoved my face down to the ground, and left me laying there, broken by the lowest part of you.