making time…
manuscripts….
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
waiting for this…
I’m not writing a postscript when I look into your eyes a
nd say “yes.” I’m not begging for fantasy when I let you watch me cum, my throat exposed to the steamy air we share. I’m not seeking the dark when I run my fingers through your hair—my every exhale a shiver of light.
I’m here. I’ve been here all along.
if…
Dear Gentle Sir,
When I say your name, my heart rumbles
much like a lion roars when it knows it’s right.
If only we could know the future, we might roar more.
xo
if freckles were lovely, and day was night
and measles were nice and a lie warn’t a lie
life would be delight
but things couldn’t go right
for in such a sad plight
i wouldn’t be iif earth was heaven and now was hence
and past was present and false was true
there might be some sense
but I’d be in suspense
for on such a pretense
you wouldn’t be you.if fear was plucky, and globes were square
and dirt was cleanly and tears were glee
things would seem fair
yet they’d all despair
for if here was there
we wouldn’t be we.
— e.e cummings —
la vie en rose…
Listen, my love, listen with your heart’s every breath.
full as craving…
… along the creases of my softest skin.
hear me roar…
Your name is a roar
deep in the pit of my need.
start where you are…
You can’t go back and change the beginning,
but you can start where you are
and change the ending.
— C. S. Lewis —
des communs élans…
She the river that wears down stone
and makes new caves in my body
For me to crawl into and laugh and splash in
In the warm and wet and small places where there is no shame.
— Electric Youth —
look me in my big, brown eyes…
…and tell me again.