The fluffy buoyancy of my full bust is dreamlike. I am a woman of pillows and teeth. When society came to rain on my parade, I shot the newspaper editors first. In my glass feet, a million shattering lines from the impact of every decision I make weighing at my soul like a backpack it just can’t put down. My hands in transparent silk gloves stroke down my man’s arms. His muscles a moodscape of masculine power. He touches my softness softly, and wakes my desires from their fitful slumber. My breasts are two globular worlds for him to survey.
Miniature Moon 