What are you doing?  And me?  Not much, my love. I'm looking forward to tomorrow, because I'm getting fed up with my restless nights, where I wait for sleep to come, and just as I feel it whisper its soothing truth, my body jumps and I start to cough.  I don't mean to alarm you, my ripe mulberry.  You're as gorgeous as a bee.  Your mountains of hair are free of wild birds, and weeds.  Your arms are symmetrical.  Your voice mellifluous, and your face is tangible—your name is sound.  I was impressed to discover you do not suffer from cobweb feet.  Your toes are magnanimous. If I don't think of you, I'll die of sudden heart disease.  Whenever I'm near you I'm not worried about the length of your arm.  You don't have trouble discerning shapes and sizes, and that speaks volumes towards your general competency.  Your teeth are imperfect and beautiful, but not brilliant. You cannot carry a tune, but your relatives are good people. They do the best they can with what they have. You wear slippers like you are in love. You'll be hot if you smoke in your 50s.

I miss your butt.