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heart need…

Sometimes…

The moon echoes back your name to me. It sounds in the deep back of my throat and echoes with the Pleasure of a thousand cums. You are the face I hold between my soft thighs, the heart I hold against my thrumming clit, the lips I ride into each sunset.

Tonite…

I sang to the moon and I sat with you in her light by water and wave, under tree and root. I am ceremony with you. The words we have yet to speak trace along the soft edges of my side boob. I feel your eyes on me and I reach for your hot hard need with a smile on my lips.

Always…

 

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good bones…

Life is short, though I keep this from my children.
Life is short, and I’ve shortened mine
in a thousand delicious, ill-advised ways,
a thousand deliciously ill-advised ways
I’ll keep from my children. The world is at least
fifty percent terrible, and that’s a conservative
estimate, though I keep this from my children.
For every bird there is a stone thrown at a bird.
For every loved child, a child broken, bagged,
sunk in a lake. Life is short and the world
is at least half terrible, and for every kind
stranger, there is one who would break you,
though I keep this from my children. I am trying
to sell them the world. Any decent realtor,
walking you through a real shithole, chirps on
about good bones: This place could be beautiful,
right? You could make this place beautiful.

— Maggie Smith —

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under this glorious moon…

We could be taking in such sweet delight.
We could be enjoying the best sex of our lives.
We could be hard and wet from such an invite.
We could be smiling as the other writhes.

Come to bed.
While the moon whispers what is most true.
Come to bed.
While you see this look I have from wanting you.
Come to bed.
This pleasure we share needs tending to.

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