The Pink Shirt

The music plays
it keeps playing on and on
As she starts taking her shirt off
In the light filtered by her windows.
I had decided to follow her from afar,
But, as is known, distances are often closed faster
Than we think.
Her bra is off, and, all of a sudden,
Two perfect globules stare at me
Like robust balls of flour.
Her pierced navel is like an eclipse,
Shadowing the all the desire of the lost yesterdays.
The shirt's on the ground, but the part's pointing upward
Like a pole bearing a fluttering flag.
The walls close in as the heat rises,
And then,I see a naked sculpture of truth.
A turn, and the sunlight reflects of the cleavage on to my startled face.
This is the face of elation, the face of absolute majesty.
Now, I have to leave.
As the tune of never meeting keeps on playing,
I realise that the hills are alive like the breasts
Of the woman in question.
I need not reach self-inflicted orgasms any longer.