manifesto…

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.

http://naughtylittlefantasy.tumblr.com/post/141874287987

   — Wendell Berry —

three times my life has opened…

Three times my life has opened.
Once, into darkness and rain.
Once, into what the body carries at all times within it and starts
to remember each time it enters the act of love.
Once, to the fire that holds all.
These three were not different.
You will recognize what I am saying or you will not.
But outside my window all day a maple has stepped from her leaves
like a woman in love with winter, dropping the colored silks.
Neither are we different in what we know.
There is a door. It opens. Then it is closed. But a slip of light
stays, like a scrap of unreadable paper left on the floor,
or the one red leaf the snow releases in March.

— Jane Hirshfield —

i want to know you…

I want to know what kind of man you are beneath the surface.

I want to understand what makes your heart beat faster and what you love. What makes you mad, and why it has that power over you.

I want to learn if your anger is hot and quick like mine, or a lingering coldness that freezes those who invoke your wrath. Do you forgive them when the red mist subsides, or do you hold a grudge through all of eternity?

I wish I could know how you see me through those quiet eyes of yours. I want you to tell me if you long to stroke my hair as we drift off to sleep, or if it’s my curves that your hands ache for. I wonder if you would message me goodnight before bed, so that I would never close my eyes without knowing that I was loved. Perhaps you would expect my heart to know that already, simply by the way your face lights up at the sight of mine.

What do you dream of when you close your eyes? Do you sleep peacefully until the light dapples your skin through the blinds, or do the tigers prowl around your head, leaving you shivering in fear in the darkness?

When you are lonely, do you ever think about my smile, or the way that I always know how to still the demons that scream inside you? I wonder if I am still vivid in your awareness, or a distant memory now; a spectre bathed in the gentle lustre of nostalgia.

Do you chase sunsets or sunrises? I love both. Does the promise of a shimmering new dawn appeal to you more than the glow of another day closing in a riot of colour? I wonder where peace finds you. Will you drink hot tea with me as the sun blazes through the horizon, reminding us of the fleeting nature of this life? I think I would like that.

I want to learn if you prefer the bright crackle of a burning log fire, snuggled up in blankets against the cold, or the way that the sun plays upon warm limbs, making them glow golden in the afternoon light. Is it summer that brings a smile to those lips I covet, or would you rather turn your face up to taste the snowflakes as they fall?

I watch to see if you curse the fact that you cannot get to work in the snow, or if you roll up your sleeves joyfully to build a snowman. And if you do, I notice whether you give him a stone mouth so that he might smile upon the children that wave as they pass him by.

Do you ever fantasise about losing yourself, out there, in the world? Do you seek the quiet solitude of a wooden log cabin on the edge of a lake, or do you prefer the lights and glamour of cocktail dresses in a fancy room full of raucous laughter?Where do you want to go? What do you want to see?

Do you hear it when adventure calls out your name and more importantly, do you answer?

I want to know where you hide, when the world becomes too much to bear.

Where do you take your freedom?

Is there space for another in your haven, or can I follow you only so far, then settle patiently to await your return to me; the reunion all the sweeter for your absence.

See, I wanna know if you have hurt people. Did their tears rain on your heart, each drop a sharp stinging torment? I try to imagine if you wear a mask of hardness in the face of another’s pain, or if you are gentle as you ask for forgiveness. Do you bleed through another’s wounds? Can you?

Tell me how you have broken someone you loved, and whether you were able to fix them again. Did they love you still when the pieces were put back together? What horrors live in the bleakest corners of your soul? What do you think about when you go there?

I want to know the very worst of you.

Share with me the music that plays in your heart, and whether you dance to the beat of your own drum. Show me the colour of your love. If you could splash its brightness onto a waiting canvas, would it burn with passionate reds and oranges, or would it run still and strong in a cool turquoise calm?

Tell me if you kiss softly, your lips singing mine a gentle lullaby, or whether they would rage intently, scorching new pathways to my heart with a desire that refuses be stilled. I want to feel it either way.

Show me if you want a sweet girl, or a dirty one. Or a little of each. What makes you cry out in ecstasy? Is it a woman that makes you laugh until your stomach hurts, or one whose beauty takes your breath away with a single look? Do you look for the quirky ones, perhaps? The ones who are too easily overlooked, the hidden treasures?

Tell me, would you risk it all for love? Would you fight for what you truly want, or would you let it slip away into nothing, never knowing what might have been, because you never told her that your heart beat only for her? Did you ever realise she was waiting for you to fight for her? Will you watch someone else love her because you were too afraid to be vulnerable with her?

Will you settle for next best, the girl you could maybe grow to love someday, instead of the one that haunts your thoughts today? Is that enough for you? Maybe it is. Could you live with yourself knowing that she got away?

Tell me about a time that you cried until you couldn’t breathe anymore. Or where you lived through a day where you prayed for the sweet release of death. Did you make it through? I have been there. Has your heart been broken into a million tiny pieces and, if it has, has it made you hard? Or are you are still open to the beauty that the world holds for you?

Show me your pain and I will show you mine. I hope it does not scare you. It has helped me to grow.

I want to know if you talk to the glittering stars above us, and which one is special to you. What do you think happens when we die? Do we join their shining ranks in heaven or is there nothing left for us? Are you afraid of death? I am. Will you hold my hand if I leave you first? If you whisper to me that love knows no boundaries, not even death, will you mean it?

Tell me about your childhood. I want to know the way your mother’s hair smelled when you crawled exhausted into her lap, and the way your bedroom looked when you were 10. Did your father cry when you curled a tiny fist around his finger for the very first time? I bet he did. I want to know all the people that you have loved throughout your life, so that I might love them through you and with you.

Do you write? Do you draw? I want to know whether you ache to capture my face with your pencil, preserving the wonder that lingers softly there. Do you like to express yourself through words, or action best? Will your hands illustrate your story as you speak and will I know that you are lying from the way your lips tremble gently as the words tumble guiltily from them?

What is your favourite book? Explain to me why it enraptures you so. Please? It tells me a lot about you. I love the way people cry when their favourite character breaks their heart, as though they are an old friend to be adored. Who is yours? I will seek them out and befriend them to understand why they have moved you so much.

Lend me your secrets. I’ll keep them safe and I’ll return them when my picture of you is complete. Whisper into my ear so that only us two may share them. Do you believe in magic? I do, now that I have met you.

Tell me your story, for it might well become part of my story. Let me in. Let me see you. All of you.

I want to know you.

— JoJo Rowden —

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 —

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

mírame…

I recently read that there is no greater intimacy then to hold your lover’s eyes as you cum. I believe this to be true. The trick is to find another who is brave enough to bear such beauty in their soul… this light called Hope.

mírame

love sonnet xi…

love sonnet 1

L
I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair.
Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets.
Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day
I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

I hunger for your sleek laugh,
your hands the color of a savage harvest,
hunger for the pale stones of your fingernails,
I want to eat your skin like a whole almond.

I want to eat the sunbeam flaring in your lovely body,
the sovereign nose of your arrogant face,
I want to eat the fleeting shade of your lashes,

and I pace around hungry, sniffing the twilight,
hunting for you, for your hot heart,
like a puma in the barrens of Quitratue.

— Pablo Neruda —

love sonnet 2