desire: a dangerous flame…

The problems start when desire is no longer about discovery, but just a cheap way of avoiding love…

… when I have trusted my desire, whether or not I have acted on it, life has become much more difficult, but strangely more illuminated. When I have not trusted my desire, out of cowardice or common sense, slowly I have gone into shadow…

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the hours…

We throw our parties… we struggle to write books that do not change the world, despite our gifts and our unstinting efforts, our most extravagant hopes. We live our lives, do whatever we do, and then we sleep. Its as simple and ordinary as that. A few jump out windows, or drown themselves, or take pills; more die by accident; and most of us are slowly devoured by some disease, or, if we’re very fortunate, by time itself. There‘s just this for consolation: an hour here or there when our lives seem, against all odds and expectations, to burst open and give us everything we’ve ever imagined, though everyone but children (and perhaps even they) know these hours will inevitably be followed by others, far darker and more difficult. Still, we cherish the city, the morning;
we hope, more than anything, for more.
Heaven only knows why we love it so…

— Michael Cunningham —

cierra la puerta…

You were once inside me.
You know the folds that define me.
You have tasted the flavour of love blossom and linger on me.
Our desire oozed and flowed from me, insatiable.
You have sucked me into such moans that
even upon recollection your cock springs into action.
You binged on me – sweating out my light, drowning in the deep dark.
My trust, a gift.
Our joy was a door caught in the wind’s wild rhythm.
Banging.
Banging.
Banging.