rewdgrrl

The radio wafts the tones of Nils Blythe Over dreaming lugs barely sentient, The year’s fourth quarter fogs softly, Yet in my mind August dreams float; Thoughts and reflections rise to the Nub of unbidden nipples in the cold, Embracing the delectation of the petite: Softly rising downs of English lasses. A gentle swell of desire’s intelligence, Weaving in tongues the wishes of the wise; Beautiful undulation, understated Response to summer’s pert call; Spring’s subtle cry; winter’s imagined whimsy. The well crafted breast: small, delicious.