I’ve got this bit
under my armpit.
At the front it’s definitely boob but as it continues to the side
the glide
turns to a tide
of fat.
Yeah that.
That bit.
Much maligned I must say
as just a bump
a lump
a curve in –some would say—
the wrong place.
A spare tyre
a slump
and when down in that particular dump
something I myself have wished away.
The bit
Don’t fit
the subscribed shape of hot
But it fits perfectly –does it not—
in the caring hand of a cuddle lover,
a sofa snuggler, a bra taker off-er.
As I’m enfolded,
moulded
and scooped into fond embrace.
That flesh kneaded
Turning me into a need filled knot.
Just a bit to stroke so tenderly,
squeeze so caringly,
entrap so casually.
That bit
not thought about
not sought out
but without a doubt
caressed with love.
That bit.
Yeah, I love that bit.
