Posted on

as i walked out one evening…

As I walked out one evening,
Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
“Love has no ending.

“I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
Till China and Africa meet
And the river jumps over the mountain
And the salmon sing in the street.

“I’ll love you till the ocean
Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
Like geese about the sky.

“The years shall run like rabbits
For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages
And the first love of the world.”

But all the clocks in the city
Began to whirr and chime:
“O let not Time deceive you,
You cannot conquer Time.

“In the burrows of the Nightmare
Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
And coughs when you would kiss.

“In headaches and in worry
Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
To-morrow or to-day.

“Into many a green valley
Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
And the diver’s brilliant bow.

“O plunge your hands in water,
Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
And wonder what you’ve missed.

“The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
A lane to the land of the dead.

“Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer
And Jill goes down on her back.

“O look, look in the mirror,
O look in your distress;
Life remains a blessing
Although you cannot bless.

“O stand, stand at the window
As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour
With your crooked heart.”

It was late, late in the evening,
The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming
And the deep river ran on.

      — W.H. Auden —

Posted on

excerpts from the once-blind…

A man once told me that I make the trees turn on.
My presence, a switch that illuminates
his dark world, making it brighter and alive.
But his words, like so many others, were hollow —
mere shadows of the same dark,
delusions of an escape he hid inside.
His fear of freedom was
an echo I chose not to hear.

…

Stories like this, I wish weren’t true. I wish such stories weren’t mine. The ones I care about now feature you. Stories that promise more hours in a day to hear you cum. Stories that feature me climbing on top of you and sliding your cock inside, all the way to its meaty end. Where I bend over and you, on your knees, push your tongue between my lines and suckle me into tears of writhing, wanton pleasure.

Just like you’ve done before.
But more.
And again.

When you touch me, let me look. Let me watch pleasure overtake your jawline. When you kiss me, let me tremble with you. Let my pussy soak my panties before you undress me. When you moan with me, let me grip your thickening cock with the urgency I feel. Let me lick my lips in preparation to please you. Let me be my own light while you bask in your own – our skin entwined, ever-curious.

Just…

Don’t be afraid.
Don’t lie to me.
Don’t confuse me with someone
who is nothing without you,
is blind, afraid enough to possess you
or just walks away.

I’m not her.
Even when I forget to be…
I’m only and ever me.

Posted on

fever pitch…

You place me at the perfect height: our eyes peer directly into the other’s. your hips gently push my legs apart as you move in to kiss me.  And like today’s welcome rain, the tenderness of your lips refreshes me like each drop of cleansing, wet air. We pause to simply drink one another in. Your gaze incites release. I feel my heart sob with joy.

I trace your sweet face and with each adoring sweep, I hold you so that I might give you the gift that lesser men have quailed from: I see you with open eyes. I accept your imperfect, scared smallest self. I smile, willing a courage I barely recognize myself. My fingertips imprint light into every crack they find. I trust, and in this, I offer you the best of myself.

You can feel pressure inside your chest building; it builds inside the history of your borders and boundaries, inside what others have forbidden and allowed, inside the dam that barely holds your fear at bay. You feel lost inside all this… space. Permission. You look down, away from me.

“It… feels… too much,” you say.
“To be found?” I ask.

Startled, you meet my eyes. And suddenly kiss me again. This time, on my temples, my brow, my high cheekbones, my sweet dimples, and full lips. Your hands hold me as your body urgently speaks words you’re not yet brave enough to say.

Your fingers deftly – tenderly – slide from my knee, up my velvety inner thigh and lighty… so so lightly, your fingers move up and down, inching closer to the wet that swells my pussy.  Reaching the velvety corner deep between my legs, between my thighs and mound, you look at me again, intent. You watch my expression as your fingers slowly so slowly flip and dance, back and forth – this time moving closer to my swollen, pulsing lips.

The fever has pitched. My petal-soft folds moan their pleasure through my throat. It comes out a gasping breath, a call and response led by my voice saying your name. My panties now to the side, I lean back with my long legs spread and I hook my calves and feet around you.

This time our shared gaze smolders. This time, when you put your fingers in my mouth, one-by-one, your jaw drops a little with anticipation. My looking at you is unadorned.  I want you inside me so fucking much. I am hunger and need and promise personified. I am yours. We are your bidding…

Posted on

quietness…

Inside this new love, die.
Your way begins on the other side.
Become the sky.
Take an axe to the prison wall.
Escape.
Walk out like someone suddenly born into color.
Do it now.
You’re covered with thick clouds.
Slide out the side. Die,
and be quiet. Quietness is the surest sign
that you’ve died.
Your old life was a frantic running
from silence.

The speechless full moon
comes out now.

— Rumi —

Posted on

its own kind of freedom…

I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.

Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.

… so many love notes.

Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.

This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.