“How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.”
—W.H. Auden—
Secret Thots for a Very Private Gentleman
tales, temptation, and titillation…
“How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.”
—W.H. Auden—
Memorize me.
I touched myself tonite.
I fondled the softest parts of my moan.
I pressed so hard my breath caught.
I almost said your name.
Over
and Over
Again
My skin is silent, not because it has nothing to say but because it’s waiting for you to begin.
I discovered a depth of desire that will only ever echo your name.
And in this knowing, I touch my softest parts, again and again,
ever dewy from knowing the strength and tenderness of your touch.
I wait for your gaze to remind me of what was possible and what might yet be.
I open to you, flush with hope, wet with need, soft with moan.
Lover, come to me.
…I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.
—Pablo Neruda—