Fat: the apples on a cheek, the fake smile
gone Duchenne as you brush blusher.
A perfectly round ass in blue cotton sweatpants,
green hoodie clinging, riding up in places.
The shape of your red hair framing
the face that I can't see:
full lips glossed pink, a rounded nose,
eyes made up, but gravid as if opened
just this moment. Freckled, dimpled. Flushed.
A glimpse of shining flesh between
the waistband and the jacket hem,
the inward curve from hip to spine
a valley to be measured, arching
warm and soft beneath the tracing fingers.
A room to be in on our own,
space and light enough to see and feel,
the arc of hands, the shiver in the flesh,
the quickening breath, senses, beings fused;
your curves, the muscle sheathed beneath
your fat. Perfection. Fulness. Plenitude.