I don’t care where we are or who’s around,
this is what I want to do every time I see you.
the darning needle…
your love is downy soft
a gentle brush ‘gainst lashes closed
a fist wrapped tight ’round rosemary and mint
it beats like a drum in the basement
it’s echo a pillow plumped in sheet forts built long ago
each crinkle of your smile
a constant call that does not rest
that will not abide the loss of what can be won
sweet determination
sufferance of fools
and saviour to none
your love blossoms under full moons
in the spaces between words on pages
and gasps of air ‘tween laughter that rings true
this is your fullness
the light you shine on a world living for itself
you pause when you used to run
you doubt despite assurances you are right
you speak without apology
into a mic made of bone and air
dear one
hold the hand that reaches for you
but let it go, let it be
and float
float
and float
here among the clouds of your heart’s home
hear the beat calling your own name from within
the sky that holds all that love
that is you
— Lola Moi —
all for love…
… but where is the light?
we are everything in between…
Your hands are wonderful, especially when their holding brings forth such
honeysuckle… sucking… goodness.
That I might be muse for such outpourings baffles me.
The certainty that I might be something more than less still eludes me
like insights newly born and swaddled in words still half-formed.
That you might allow me as witness to speak on our behalf, here
illuminates my shortcomings
as scribe to all that is profound and simple.
(There, I see it: your back swathed in silence.)
We are never more than what the other decides
and yet, we remain always as whispers,
as Pleasure that cannot keep a secret for long
and so, we are compelled.
In this mystery, I see you.
In this, we are met.
And so, are we lost.
omnia vincit amor…
hope…
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MnulICA8TG0&w=380&h=320
under pressure…
The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.
Sitting there, looking into the vacant eyes of overworked suits, food-fused stollers, and academic neglect, your spine shivers. Not from cold, though with each waft of air something certainly stirs within you. This day, you cannot align yourself with the abundance of barely-beating hearts. Despite your own years of wear and tear, she has gifted you, down to each nerve, with life.
The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.
Thoughts of her sustain you. You can smell her everywhere. You rest your head on the window, close your eyes, and with the everyday gestures of a man, you secretly sniff your collar, the cuff of your jacket, the palm of your hand, your finger… tips. She is still there. Your breath catches with heated reminiscence. There is room for more inside. There is this. This pressure she is… is intense. Your cock tingles and aches to splurge.
The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.
The train carries you closer to her even when you’ve just left, the long ride redolent of each delicious moan you’ve shared. Her soft mounds and curves await you behind closed doors; she is always open for you. She’s not the first who would do anything for you but she is waiting, she is always waiting, has always been waiting and your balls roil with anticipation, your suckable, full cock tips its head and quickens at the thot. No, you cannot commiserate with the dearth of listless grey lives around you. She has claimed you and you are forever changed.
The doors of the metro open and close, open and close.
Open and close.
Open.
Close.
Open…
L
– Lola Moi –
the fool i am…
I am only responsible for my own heart,
you offered yours up for the smashing my darling.
Only a fool would give out such a vital organ.
– Anaïs Nin –