An expanse in the shape of an hourglass;

With all the angles of one too.

Up the center grows a porcelain tree.

Its branches, the definition of symmetry,

Are the perfect frame to drape ivory flesh upon.

At its base, two dimples as if

A maker’s mark for man, showing him

The best place for his hands

When he holds her.

Hanging from hip bones.

Flat, sloping flesh.

Flexing inward.

Begging for the touch of my lips.

Framed by the low-ride of his jeans.

Leading me south toward his virility.