Not your mass-produced sentiments, drugstore roses, or waxy chocolate. Deep down in your pagan core. No matter how pretty Hallmark tarts you up for polite consumption, packages you with punny "I love you beary much" plush, you're still a wild thing forged in blood sacrifice and ritual violence.
At the heart of your stylized red buttocks lie Lupercalian youths whipping Roman maidens into slick and fertile frenzy with straps of gore drenched goatskin. Religion. Blood. Sex. Survival.
You're an old time mating rite in a world that's commoditized the sacred and commercialized the profane and hyper-sexualized us to desensitivity, where the rhythm of skin on skin is no longer enough and kink must be accessorized and orgasm tastes like cherry Superglide.
Valentine's Day, you aren't for tactical seduction in trendy nightspots or the elaborate presentation of twenty-four carat tokens of affection. You are a celebration of carnal purification.
You are for pressing body to body, mingling scent and sweat and DNA until two souls slam into one.
When I celebrate you tonight, Valentine's day, it will be transcendent.