I love the way summer brings out the exhibitionist in you; I appreciate your short skirts and bare bellies, admire your tanning arms shoulders, soaking in Mr. Sun's rays like greedy plants after a long, hard winter.
I watch your legs rising like pillars toward the heavens, and no matter they are shrouded at the last minute by your wisps of cloth like cumulo nimbi obscuring one's view of the peak of Mount Vesuvius (yes, I know I mentioned that mountain in my last post - bugger off, I'm trying to wax eloquent here).
I admire your confident strut, your oblivious smiles and the laughter you share with your friends, or lovers.
I love your tops, whether tight cotton or diaphonous film but I confess to a certain disappointment this summer in your slavish adherence to the dictates of Fascion.
Apparently and alas, bras are "in" this year and so you hide that aspect of your form which most draws my eye; those lovely mounds which shift in counterpoint to the rest of your body, which tease with hints of the vision splendid barely hidden beneath your top.
Why spoil so lovely a sight with the mechanistic holster that keeps you from the freedom of movement I crave?
Ahem. Blame it on the NiQuil I'll soon by quaffing.