Much on wings

You are much on wings 

These days in my mind, and it's true -

you have long swept in up there. Driving
off thought, power of speech, when you 

- sans dainty French-maid outfit, or eventually sans
- from jeans, a quite modest beach two-piece suit,
summer dress, winter bundled up gear, slob sweats,
cute sports apparel - however you are!

You will sweep as you are right into my mind,
and apparently insist to "slip into nothing" more
comfortable than you own bare hinder and every
bit else, to do 

what's apparently work 

you love: rendering my mind brand spanked
gleaming and thoughtless of all 
but
pure 
me

holding
onto you 

singing wordlessly 
to a tune you dance, well - 
it isn't just me. It seems neither of us
can resist routine 

when you've got no pants! But 
- what's with the wings?

Was it not enough to keep feet firm 
turn, twist-leap pirouette - oh, as if to display
that your dancer's form isn't just for show? But 

whatever other move, act, test, daring-proving
technique that you
in such moments
bet your ass you'll do,
do proud and all, stood, sat,
luxuriously tousled in sprawl,
beheld well in all your glory,
for any to see? Who happens
to be lucky as hell
just now? 

Just me!
But wings? Hey, 
come on girl. You're the ape 
of an angel at least - we all 
are. Ask Hamlet, but I think

the wings 

are a touch obscene. 
Gratuitous. Better 

than need by far.   

And on you? I prefer 
a touch much of the less 
pretentious being you 

really are. Albeit - 
keep the wings! If that's 
what uplifts
ya self!
I was just 
a touch curious.
Wings. Do seem a bit extra 

on some girl's back when she
barges in cleaning
out
every
thing