There’s nothing quite like her birthday suit—
No ribbons, tags, or lace to mute.
Just curves that whisper sweet delights,
And keep me up on school nights.
She drops her robe — a work of art,
A masterpiece that stops my heart.
No need for frills or stitched disguise,
I’d rather see her in her natural highs.
Those hips? A language all their own,
They speak in sighs and undertone.
That back? A path I’ve walked for years—
Still takes me places. Brings me tears.
The moon gets jealous when she glows,
My wife\'s bare skin — a warm repose.
And when she struts from bath to bed,
I’m lost. All thoughts go soft... or red.
So cheers to skin, to grace, to play,
To every line I trace each day.
And if you ask what love looks like—
It\'s her. In nothing. On my bike.
© Susie Stiles-Wolf