My stupendous breasts astound me with magnificence -
I long to fondle their cool facade; feel the nipples prick
between my middle fingers as my wondering hands idly slide
down-chest to quantify the comfort convex of voluptuousness.
Then when I feel an urge to spoon my lover's sleeping arse into my lap
I press my phantom bosoms hard against his back and feel them widen
to the point of explosion; notice suction and experience the notion
that he'll stir and maybe turn to cup them in his dreaming hands.
And when I'm sure that they are in the way each time I roll in bed,
the pain of them is absent, there's just an ache as when my actual hand
detects a dent where once there was a bounce of abundance.
Yet no one can deny the presence of imaginary mamories;
they are part of my psyche; they are me without a mirror, and I wear them
wherever - whenever... Not a soul suspects that when I walk I do not have
the real thing on me, or that breasts are only in my head. My chest is impressive;
spectacular. I am all woman, in feminine grandeur. All woman, phenomenally.