four leaf (c)lover…

this multi-hued skin i live in moans shades of love every time you’ve touched me… licked, sucked, and squeezed. every time our eyes have locked, my scent has floated its way to the base of your cock, stirring the air of desire between us. one of the most natural things about this life, is the way i want you. the way my pussy juice slides down your fingers, your chin, your shaft, splashing our softest of softest skin in a torrent of hot breath and heaving hope. each spread and arch and wriggle and reach is for you. for me. for us.

we are so lucky.

in your hands…

http://78.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_lcispo3vwW1qeksdwo1_500.jpg

I discovered a depth of desire that will only ever echo your name.
And in this knowing, I touch my softest parts, again and again,
ever dewy from knowing the strength and tenderness of your touch.
I wait for your gaze to remind me of what was possible and what might yet be.

I open to you, flush with hope, wet with need, soft with moan.
Lover, come to me.

 

a buffet of plenty…

they don’t fit into little
pretty places. these hips
are free hips.
they don’t like to be held back.
these hips have never been enslaved,
they go where they want to go
they do what they want to do.
these hips are mighty hips.

—Lucille Clifton—

the saddest poem…

…I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

—Pablo Neruda—