Poor babies.  Best friends.

she is so sensuously pre-embattled
yet sumptuously well-woven
*down there*. 

as hard as an Amazon  well-warned of  a pretense to be imposed,
yet as soft as a caring look into a familiar’s revealing eyes. 

(of course, what have I ever really witnessed?
it is all clearly merely my own rich imaginative hearsay, after she sat but once,
maybe more? – imaginatively – yet lovingly, upon my lap). 

entirely bloomingly and beyond-daisy gorgeous and tensile is she.

how her coitals ripple above me, upon me,
arousing beyond repair, my flagrantly-expended quixotic hard flesh.

obvious now, in the aftermath, her such outbursts serve phantom purpose as…
both the accost of my insuppressible bestirring
and as her own self-limiting worn chastity belt.

she, not some suckling lord of the  beseeching lot,
decides, in the moment of the , whom to quench and
what lover to indulge. 

i, an improbable dreamland throw-thing, simply chastise myself in the gleam of our Sun, imagining (imagining!) myself someday just so worthy...
and her most intimate forever encounter.

Just remember when you go picking my apples that there's almost certainly a tree with lower fruit somewhere right around your yonder corner.