Secret Thots for a Very Private Gentleman
tales, temptation, and titillation…
I’ve trusted the wrong people, men I thought were good.
I’ve given more than was wise.
So, when your kisses spread like wildfire through me,
When your touch ignites even the calmest of storms,
Everything finally makes sense.
All things sing:
that was but a wannabe kind of joy but this, this…
I am finally free.
When I discover who I am, I’ll be free.
— Ralph Ellison —
Go to the limits of your longing…
Flare up like flame and make big shadows that I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going.
No feeling is final.
— Rainer Maria Rilke —
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.
your love is downy soft
a gentle brush ‘gainst lashes closed
a fist wrapped tight ’round rosemary and mint
it beats like a drum in the basement
it’s echo a pillow plumped in sheet forts built long ago
each crinkle of your smile
a constant call that does not rest
that will not abide the loss of what can be won
sweet determination
sufferance of fools
and saviour to none
your love blossoms under full moons
in the spaces between words on pages
and gasps of air ‘tween laughter that rings true
this is your fullness
the light you shine on a world living for itself
you pause when you used to run
you doubt despite assurances you are right
you speak without apology
into a mic made of bone and air
dear one
hold the hand that reaches for you
but let it go, let it be
and float
float
and float
here among the clouds of your heart’s home
hear the beat calling your own name from within
the sky that holds all that love
that is you
— Lola Moi —
you’re free.
Love, like art,
must always be free.
– Wachowskis and J. Michael Straczynski –
Dear Gentle Sir,
Must I remind you?
When you hold me, firmly, losing yourself inside the flavours I am.
Your voice, especially when pleasure overtakes you.
Your hands gently, almost secretly, caressing mine.
The growing bob of your eager cock, and the way you watch me enjoying you.
The shiver you make when my tongue and lips read between the lines.
The surprise on your face when I blush from your masculine beauty.
The moan I am when I am with you.
The fucking moan I cannot keep inside.
Achingly Yours,
Lola xo