The sight of her breasts was impeccable
through the thin white material of her blouse
and jealousy filled my own large chest
for want of fleshy perkiness like that.
My own pendulous breasts hang low on my chest
wearing downward pointing rose nipples
that no one ever gets to see but me
and only when I lift them upwards
one at a time by hand in the mirror.
I was a naïve 12 years old
when last I had small B cup boobs like hers—
what I wouldn’t give of myself now
to be that small chested again.