I can’t help but nuzzle into your Michelin man arms,
your doughy thighs which spring back when pushed
like a perfectly proved, fresh loaf of bread —
& you hungrily stick my finger in your mouth
and giggle with glee as if it’s drenched in honey.
Then you bury your face in my belly and take it all in
and dribble into the soft oven batch of hot dog rolls and I remember then,
that we are made of the same stuff:
My genes are a part of sweet you and I will relish in my softness
and always relish in you too.