Upon your flattened breasts
I feel as if I may write poetry
Not a famous pursuit of mine
But one in which I find pleasure
My hand wanders, and does this worry you?
Do you oppose it?
Ah me, I am typical in this moment
I am a man as any other
And your complexion
Has an effect which even the sturdiest hand
Could not capture on paper
Will you let me tell you a few secrets?
Or has my rambling perturbed you?
Women are so good at holding men's secrets
But even the biggest bucket
Can contain a small hole
That would be its undoing
Do you not agree?
Are you too busy basking in the sun
To converse with me?
Sun, like spirits, sometimes dulls the pursuit
Of intellectual stimulation
Here is my secret
Until just a few moments ago
I had never touched
A naked woman
I have seen many
Imagined even more
But never actually touched one
Until you, my beautiful...
What an interesting experience
The warmth
The breath
The brevity
All of it
Wonderful
I am glad I did not try this
When I was younger
Not because I would have fumbled with it
Because I have just fumbled with it now
But because I would not have enjoyed the fumbling so
I often abused myself back then
For any shortcomings that appeared
In my character
Mistakes no longer trouble me
For I understand
They are the fabric of life
With only small solutions
Acting as threads
Sewing one error to the next
Your breasts are truly indescribable
And as you can most likely tell
I am not a man
Who is short on speech
Perhaps the most marvelous thing
About all of this
Is how much it has taken from me
I feel as if I was holding so much
In such small hands
And now
I have less
I have so much less
And it...
...is glorious
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