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we are everything in between…

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.

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love sonnet xi…

love sonnet 1

L
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

— Pablo Neruda —

love sonnet 2

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you are this glow of pleasure on my face…

Slide your tongue here, where I am softest.
Kiss me like you mean it.
Pin my arms above my head, nibble my neck
As you slide your thick need between my sweet, wet folds.
Hold my legs over my head and suckle me from ass to clit.
Don’t stop; I want you to make me moan.

Pull your cock out, free yourself, and give into my admiration.
Let me tongue you in those places you barely touch,
Have rarely given over to another.
Feel my hands on you; holding, pulling, caressing with my care.
Forgive my urgency, my need, my wet.
Believe every time I’ve ever adored you; there is no other story.

It may be the full moon calling us.
It may be the waves echoing memory.
After all, the moontide reminds us that past is always present.

There is no mystery or charm to the Why.
It may be the simple fact that you never left.
It may be the deepest truth that I am here because you are here
And you are you,
And you are enough.
We are worthy of our desire, of this union,
And of this heat that builds into fire.

In this, we are well-met.
Mirrors to the other in surprising ways.
It is not enough to be flesh; we are more
In this meeting of mind, body, and soul.
This, we know.

— Lola Moi —

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the sun came and so did i…

I wore a skirt today.
Had you put your hand between my legs
I would have moaned quietly
In the back of my throat with low, soft cries
And looked you square in your beautiful eyes.

I wore a pair of lace panties today.
I almost didn’t, though.
Had you slipped the lace to the side
You would have felt warm, silky lips
Licking your finger tips.

I wore the memory of you
When I slipped away “for a moment.”
Had you only been there.
Each moan undressed me, my gasps commands
As my throbbing clit fed hungry sex to my hands.

Chorus:
I came three times today.
But there you were inside me.
I came three times today.
And there I was astride you.
I came three times today.
As you cried out beside me.

— Lola Moi —

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caçadores de tempestades…

I undress you
because I want to
and in this simple action of removal
you are seen.
Like a whirling dervish
my tongue weaves magic.
Your breath the wind
bending tree boughs to its will.

A curtain parts
The space inside blooms.

Out here in the real world
people suffer a kind of emptiness they do not understand.
That echo they hear
whenever they speak?
they hear as car horns
or train tracks clicking past nowhere on the horizon.
There is no velvet to touch
No silk to grip, to sing into.

My lips part to say your name
The storm approaches.

– Lola Moi –

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not pretty but true…

Dear Gentle Sir,

I want to be the reason your breath catches and you wonder where to start.
I want to be the reason your lips part.

I want to be the reason your cock swells from there to here.
I want to be the reason you do not fear.

I want to be the reason when you’re so hard, you have nothing more to say.
I want to be the reason you moan in the middle of the day.

I want to be the reason you rip your clothes off, leaving them in a pile.
I want to be the reason when you smile.

I want to be the reason your toes curl and heels dig into the foot of the bed.
I want to be the reason why you grip an edge and in amazement shake your head.

I want to be the reason your tongue and tips slide along my silken leg.
I want to be the reason when you reach for me and beg.

I want to be the reason why you say “no” to her/ them/ it and “yes” to me.
I want to be the reason, you see.

Smoothly Yours,

Lola Moi xo

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to make them blush…

to make him blush

The words that make the rose bloom were also said to me.
The words told to the cypress to make it grow strong and straight,
The instructions whispered to the jasmine,
And whatever was said to the sugarcane to make it sweet,
And to the pomegranate flowers to make them blush,
The same thing is being said to me.

– Anne Lamott –

rose bloom

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ask me…

Some time when the river is ice ask me
mistakes I have made. Ask me whether
what I have done is my life. Others
have come in their slow way into
my thought, and some have tried to help
or to hurt: ask me what difference
their strongest love or hate has made.

I will listen to what you say.
You and I can turn and look
at the silent river and wait. We know
the current is there, hidden; and there
are comings and goings from miles away
that hold the stillness exactly before us.
What the river says, that is what I say.

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balances…

In life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average)

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately I’ve begun wondering
if you’re trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and I’ve begun

(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you