It is a dangerous thing to follow your heart
because that is where you will find me,
tucked inside.
alaska…
we are the telling…
Here, in the deep of night, your body misses mine far less than mine, yours. A steady breath sleeps beside even as our hearts beat to the rhythm of invisible nighttime wings.
We chase dreams; it’s hard to believe we are good enough. And yet, this I know: I never shone brighter than when your eyes sang my name and your mouth made love to me. My hand in yours – a sleeping nest of starlings wrapped in starlight.
My thots creep through the dark along this cusp of morning; it is a solitary time and it is anything but quiet.
blessed are the hearts that can bend…
they shall never be broken.
— Albert Camus —
let it loose…
The truth is like a lion.
You don’t have to defend it.
Let it loose.
It will defend itself.
— Saint Augustine —
on lies, secrets, and silence…
An honorable human relationship — that is, one in which two people have the right to use the word “love” — is a process, delicate, violent, often terrifying to both persons involved, a process of refining the truths they can tell each other.
It is important to do this because it breaks down human self-delusion and isolation.
It is important to do this because in doing so we do justice to our own complexity.
It is important to do this because we can count on so few people to go that hard way with us.
— Adrienne Rich —
a tiny, insignificant detail…
If you love a Flower,
don’t pick it – it dies
and ceases to be what you love,
let it be,
love is not about possession.Love is about appreciation.
— Osho —
good as drink is, it ends in thirst…
It is in the shelter of each other that people live.
— Irish Proverb —
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.
letters to a young poet…
To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is — solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate — ?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.
— Rilke