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Rubenesque She Called My Curves

Rubenesque she called my curves,
perhaps with a little envy shading 
her cool gills green as she smiled,
Mona Lisa style, and her whippet
legs, spindle arms became a cradle
for my lush bosom and my thighs.

I marvelled at the care she took
to straighten the lovely curls
out of her long hair, blonded
without sun, wondered at the 
cheeses she ate that would slip
through her like water or rain.

She loved the hand-me-downs
I tossed her - those girl clothes that
wouldn't feel my dewy woman's frame 
under their fibres again. I grew fat
on the goodness of life and love,
grew happy to frolic naked,

wend my way through furniture
strewn with paper and perfumed
by the scent of our bodies where
we sat and ate celery soup, minted
with peas and buttery toast that
slipped through her so that she said

"I'm still hungry," and made more
buttery toast I did not eat, weighed down 
as I was by envy of her figure, trapped in
bulbous flesh which, with a flick of
straight hair, she labelled "Rubenesque"
handing me my beauty in a cup.

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