Myself Like A Youngling
And in my palm
Their weight rests
The round stiff mounds
Hanging heavy from her chest
And I kiss them,
Very differently from the youngling,
Who finds them but a source
Of nourishment
Who innocently cannot comprehend
Their beauty in entirety
Who innocently fails to give credit
To the roundness, the fullness,
The suppleness of its flesh.
So often I tend to lie upon them,
Myself like a youngling,
Innocently wanting to appreciate
Their changing state.
I rest my cheek against them
And close my eyes,
Then, my lips cover the nips
In a slow, gentle kiss