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while i invisibly remain standing…

I don’t need you to paint a picture for me; I know what it is to feel you beside me. I know how it feels to look at you and silently name you “Friend” and “Lover” and “Beloved.” These quiet truths I solemnly commit to memory. They rock me to my core — not unlike the silken tip of your throbbing cock that wakes you from day-walking and deepest sleep… insistent.

We have found ourselves in this place that only makes sense when we are both here; this hallowed space we have created and nurtured and grown. I know what it is to feel your eyes on me and not want to hide. I know what it is to spread myself wide and feel your depths inside me. I am the light shining through each achy, heady bead of pre-cum bliss.

Invisible, we are everywhere. Tonite, now: I run my finger along the smooth, downy-soft topside of my clit. I do this for you. I do this for me. You will likely forget my small, tender creases of secret pleasure but never forget how each is stamped with your name. It is so simple: I want to make love to you as badly as I want to fuck you. Our withdrawal gives me the shakes.

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who can no longer pause…

Dear Gentle Sir,

“Dime a dozen” doesn’t apply to you. Not when you change my sphere of influence. Not when you alter the way I understand “then” and “now” all while I am standing “here.”

No, you are the game changer. The one whose moans whispered through the line straight to my heart. You are the world-maker. The one who shifted the sky into earth and back again all with a simple smile and sigh.

You woke me up and I haven’t slept since.
What a terrible injustice it is to be the luckiest of the unlucky.
(But more terrible to not know it.)

Nothing applies to you that makes any sense. We haven’t evolved enough to know what this is, what time we are in between, us. Each forgetting is a remembering. We are the smooth, wet edges of the promises you never made.

Take my hand, let’s walk. There is no secret shame, no grave to dance upon. When you look for me, you see because you have given me the better version of myself; that is who I meet in the courage of your trembling arms.

This isn’t a happily-ever-after. It isn’t a fairy tale, a morality tale for the ages. This happening is the story of Becoming but how does one celebrate waiting? Beloved, we are the familiar, the failure no one likes to speak of—the rousing branch that endures its yearly bloom.

Lola xo

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its own kind of freedom…

I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.

Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.

… so many love notes.

Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.

This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.

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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.

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but thunder…

Close your eyes. Remember this moment:

My mouth lingering on your skin.
My hands lightly tracing you – pausing to hold you.
My tongue licking the water off of you as it trails down your body.
My smooth, wet skin settled warm against yours.
Your breath heavy; an echo to mine.

Notice how this creates a symphony
of “yes” in your mind.
and “more.”
and “don’t stop, oh, God, don’t.”

Open your eyes. Notice how this symphony plays on.

but thunder

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the best thing…

… is to learn something. That’s the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds.

There is only one thing for it then — to learn.

Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.

— T.H. White —

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wide awake, on tiptoe…

They are patient and wise, these barely-feminine hands of mine. They seek. They know truth before I do – this is the scent they follow.

I cup your beautiful face. My hands guide me as words get lost in your eyes, in the thick lump that forms in my throat. As I trace, my fingers taste you, your fear, your need and your hunger. Along your jaw, over your lips, around your ears, sliding down and around your neck.

Something about your skin cradled against mine heats me – my cheeks, the nape of my neck, my soft soft cunt-folds.  My caress guides us both to a resting place – a place beyond, sourced from a breath-like tremble.

I have been told that my hands are intoxicating but only when touching you, do I sense some of what that might mean. I’m almost afraid to touch you more – to learn you are less than you trust me to hold.

Already I feel the full force of being seen by one who will not fully choose me and in that same breath, I defy the shadow of all we cannot be.

wide awake, on tiptoe