Tag Archives: a lover’s gift

there are days…

when nothing special happens…

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

fragment…

fragment

In fact, the stars orbiting that irresistible moon
Secret away their own luminous forms
Whenever she shines without restraint
Upon the world entire.

— Sappho —

Protected: but(t) more…

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vantage point…

vantage pointSimplify your need:
undress for me
even when I’m not there.
Touch yourself
with the same ardour
and caress that satisfies
itself on my soft roundness.
Pull your hard certainty out
in those moments of echo
that fear you may never
watch me cum again.
Such acts are a most complex
release into the Unknown
of what Completes us.
Like a cloud upstaging the moon,
memory shields us
in order to illuminate the point.

the real thing…

It’s to do with knowing and being known… Carnal knowledge. It’s what lovers trust each other with. Knowledge of each other, not of the flesh but through the flesh, knowledge of self, the real him, the real her, in extremis, the mask slipped from the face. Every other version of oneself is on offer to the public. We share our vivacity, grief, sulks, anger, joy… we hand it out to anybody who happens to be standing around, to friends and family with a momentary sense of indecency perhaps, to strangers without hesitation. Our lovers share us with the passing trade. But in pairs we insist that we give ourselves to each other. What selves? What’s left? What else is there that hasn’t been dealt out like a deck of cards? Carnal knowledge. Personal, final, uncompromised. Knowing, being known. I revere that. Having that is being rich, you can be generous about what’s shared — she walks, she talks, she laughs, she lends a sympathetic ear, she kicks off her shoes and dances on the tables, she’s everybody’s and it don’t mean a thing, let them eat cake; knowledge is something else, the undealt card, and while it’s held it makes you free-and-easy and nice to know, and when it’s gone everything is pain. Every single thing. Every object that meets the eye, a pencil, a tangerine, a travel poster. As if the physical world has been wired up to pass a current back to the part of your brain where imagination glows like a filament in a lobe no bigger than a torch bulb. Pain.

— Tom Stoppard —

lessons from the longest study…

Shivers from your touch.
With each look into my eyes.
Weeping and wet from need.
Weak with pleasure.
For hours.
Forever.lessons from the longest study

 

dirty thots about you…

dirty thots about you

 

 

You’ve got too much soul
to be handled by someone
who has never been passionate.

    — Hannah Compton’s father —

 

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