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

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 –