Her Curves

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I kneel between her legs,
entranced by her slumbering form.
So different from mine,
a field of beauteous curves, my eyes travel.

The rondure of her ass, the curve of her hips,
The swell of her breasts, the circle around her nipple,
The arc of her neck, the bow of her lips, the sweep of her hair,
Endless curves, with nary a straight line,
A beckoning field of sinuosity.

I'm mesmerized,
enthralled by her beauty,
so complex, so perfect,
even if she argues otherwise.

The arch of her brow, the lobes of her ear,
the bend of her shoulder, valley between her tits,
the camber of her belly, the indenture of her navel,
the rise of her mound, paired half-moons between her thighs,
the hidden hole between her legs, a particular favorite.

I'm not like her.
Not soft, not smooth.
Not anymore.
I'm hard and straining, desiring her.

A field of curlicues where I join with her,
a shining pearl, hidden above where we meet, gentle curves everywhere.
The welcoming flesh, curved around me,
clutching, conforming, opening, a circle of welcome.

My favorite curve? Almost.
Wonderful, but fleeting. A glorious moment,
entrancing, thrilling,
and if not for one other, it would be number one.

I search for it, quietly,
thrusting inside of her, watching her curves come to life.
The crescent of her eyelid raising,
her blue irises exposed.

And there it is,
sending my heart soaring,
my favorite curve.
The gentle smile on her lips.