Encircle or recycle
the elastic of her *******,
for they're a bit worn and showing,
proving the theory of gravity.
But his hands still
lustfully reach for them.
The cinch of her waist,
no longer tailor made,
has inched itself out a little too far.
But he thinks it just right
in placing his arms around.
The sculpture of her ***
not quite cut from stone.
But he still daydreams about
how on fleek her cheeks.
The added width to her hips
the result of two full terms
and one premature.
But they do somehow
remarkably sway him.
Descending silver streams upon her belly,
those tributaries leading
to her Garden of Eden,
evidence of their past work
in the practice room.
Here she smiles,
blushes even at such retrospect.
He is so passionate about those lines
and the gifts they've brought.
Alas! He's more a madman
than ever for her fruit
and it's heady aroma.
Resistance is futile.
Acceptance is freedom.
She makes up her mind to be
comfortable in her own skin.
A woman's life
is a series of alterations,
some less prepared for
than others.
But there is little denying
her body is a temple
that continues to be worshipped.
