Breakfast

She is the gem of my soul. We sit at breakfast and my eyes cannot help but to ravage her. So sweet and delicate... delectable.

My fair fraulein flower flatulates.

I am awash with pleasure, soaking in her ora. The glint in her eyes reflecting the rays of the sun -- her pallid competition.

My lustworthy lover hocks lungbutter.

What right do I have to hold her presence in even this simple morning ritual. The blessing so potent as to render me a puddle of servitude.

Her pointer probes proboscis.

I steal myself away for a moment so as not to be so embarrassingly obvious in my adoration. I sip my coffee, but this merely changes metaphor, as smell and touch subjugate the visual beauty from which I had been drinking. Her presence permeates all senses of the morning... stimulating my nose, ears, mouth, skin... even in the absence of sight, my gaze of her obstructed by my cup.

Beauty belches.

How poignant this love... in the silent solstice of the morning. No speech, no words... merely the connection of two souls bound together.

Heave