My love, hear me, know this to be true:
My skin is the poetry of your touch
Our story is sung with every moan that spills from my lips
And when you come deep inside me
my name becomes a rite of passage on your soul
unabridged…
Kiss me, and you will see how important I am.
― Sylvia Plath —
screensaver….
Every woman I have ever loved has left her print upon me, where I loved some invaluable piece of myself apart from me — so different that I had to stretch and grow in order to recognize her. And in that growing, we came to separation, that place where work begins.
— Audre Lorde —
follow your inner moonlight…
Two qualities are indispensable:
first, an intellect that, even in the darkest hour, retains some glimmerings of the inner light which leads to truth; and second, the courage to follow this faint light wherever it may lead.
— Carl von Clausewitz —
manifesto…
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
— Wendell Berry —
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.
say it again…
Dear Gentle Sir,
There is that moment before I appear: it is the breath that catches you – not the other way around. It is the moment you didn’t know you needed to capture and hold because once I appear, everything changes; each and every time.
You tell yourself that this time is like any other time; you and I are here, together, seeing one another and really, it’s no big deal; we are here in this way, as we must be. But your body… and the surprising way your heart just tripped – barely a little – tells the true story of us.
You say it’s me but you surprise yourself, constantly; the way your skin reaches for mine through each inhale. (Don’t worry, we won’t discuss the ways you try not to smell me on your clothes moments, hours, days later.)
In fact, the way my head tilts as I listen does not make you want to sink into silence as you softly – deftly – bring out the tender, fervid treasure of secret pleasures within me. And when my hair falls out of its tie, over my shoulders, and spills down my back, that is not an impulse to nibble my clit or lick me anywhere; you are immune to what has been and whatever might have…
When we laugh together, those tingles racing, racing, down and out and in and through your body are not because my boisterous laugh pleases your nor does it make you want to make me happy; you are not inspired by me. After all.
There is that moment before you check your watch: it is the pause before we touch one last time that claims your hope. It is the moment you didn’t know you needed to capture and hold because once I disappear, everything changes; each and every time.
Kiss,
Lola xo
mid air…
not the first…
Dear Gentle Sir,
I loved a man who was afraid of the Possible – the enormity of it. With me, he began to experience himself in his truest dimensions, that is, until he couldn’t bear it. So, he blamed me for his growing fear. He became afraid of me, not realizing it had nothing to do with me; I simply showed up and held up a mirror. He looked. He saw. He chose another – as is his wont. He prefers that which keeps him, contains him, controls him.
But even now, it is still in him – all that is Possible.
And it still has nothing to do with me.
These days, he tells himself things are great, that he is in a better place than ever before but he’s a step beside where he was before me: he is still small; he remains secretly, deeply afraid of the enormity of himself, of his own Light. He is happiest when he can hide.
Where once there was love, there now lives insight and a kind of wounded wisdom. Every time I kiss you, I wonder if you will (again), like him, take your turn and blame me for your fear? Or will you focus on my nipples, my glowing clit, and hot moans… hoping to drown out the terrifying call of what is Possible within you? Of the choices you are too afraid to make?
Truth is, it won’t be the first time.
I imagine you won’t try to be the last.
If I’m still here, that is.
Thoughtfully Yours,
Lola xo
never the same again…
All sorts of things in this world behave like mirrors.
— Jacques Lacan —