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its own kind of freedom…

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.

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the encounter…

(enchanted by this strange proximity)

Longing, and mystery, and delight…
as if from the swaying blackness
of some slow-motion masquerade
onto the dim bridge you came.

And night flowed, and silent there floated
into its satin streams
that black mask’s wolf-like profile
and those tender lips of yours.

And under the chestnuts, along the canal
you passed, luring me askance.
What did my heart discern in you,
how did you move me so?

In your momentary tenderness,
or in the changing contour of your shoulders,
did I experience a dim sketch
of other — irrevocable — encounters?

Perhaps romantic pity
led you to understand
what had set trembling that arrow
now piercing through my verse?

I know nothing. Strangely
the verse vibrates, and in it, an arrow…
Perhaps you, still nameless, were
the genuine, the awaited one?

But sorrow not yet quite cried out
perturbed our starry hour.
Into the night returned the double fissure
of your eyes, eyes not yet illumed.

For long? For ever? Far off
I wander, and strain to hear
the movement of the stars above our encounter
and what if you are to be my fate…

Longing, and mystery, and delight,
and like a distant supplication…
My heart must travel on.
But if you are to be my fate…

— Vladimir Nabokov —
translated by Olga Voronina

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april has the cruelest mouth…

On my knees, I unzipped you. Do you remember? I ask because it’s easy to forget how you make me feel.

How, when I see your beautiful hard and smell your musky need, my lips part – like the wettest sea.

How, when you look at me (the way you do), I quiver. How, looking down and seeing you between my legs, makes me reach and moan utterly and wholly breathless.

How, when I touch you, and hold you, and (if I’m lucky enough to) taste you, my skin feels electric and my brain short circuits.

It’s easy to forget how my clit loves the grip and suckle of your tongue – the confidence of your curious mouth. How, when your breath catches and your moans escape and your grip tightens, all that’s running through my mind is:

Yes. Please. Fuck, give me more.

To be with you is to want to cum hard, to writhe and buck against your strong body. To fuck like love. Do you remember how? I’m on my knees now, let me show you again.

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ode to the midnight hour…

And here is where I wait
Here
Where fading sky soaks coarse skin that life has made
My mould of bones in its exalted search aches
When
Under darkened leaves I drink you in
You your soft heart to touch to truth like water

– Lola Moi –

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balances…

In life
one is always
balancing

like we juggle our mothers
against our fathers

or one teacher
against another
(only to balance our grade average)

3 grains of salt
to one ounce truth

our sweet black essence
or the funky honkies down the street

and lately I’ve begun wondering
if you’re trying to tell me something

we used to talk all night
and do things alone together

and I’ve begun

(as a reaction to a feeling)
to balance
the pleasure of loneliness
against the pain
of loving you

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the once and future king…

The best thing for being sad … is to learn something. That’s the only thing that never fails. You may grow old and trembling in your anatomies, you may lie awake at night listening to the disorder of your veins, you may miss your only love, you may see the world about you devastated by evil lunatics, or know your honour trampled in the sewers of baser minds. There is only one thing for it then — to learn. Learn why the world wags and what wags it. That is the only thing which the mind can never exhaust, never alienate, never be tortured by, never fear or distrust, and never dream of regretting. Learning is the only thing for you. Look what a lot of things there are to learn.

– T.H. White –

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the way we live now (or, in search of lost time)…

Tonight, the moon is sombre though you wouldn’t know it;
it nestles its backside into the sky’s lap, each buck-and-grind a falling star.
Nights like this make one ache in mysterious ways.

A man once fingered me in a dark parking lot. His fingers were long and clever. He growled his pleasure in my ear and bit my lip. When he made me cum, my head fell back with air clusters catching in my throat. His kisses were coos. Tears streamed down my face; he said they tasted sweet, like stardust.

Constellations were the First Stories; we are all descended from such brilliance. We are the dreams of ancestors come true. When we look into another’s eyes, we give up the secret of what we most need – the Darkness holds it until the wind takes it up… and away, back to its first breath.

We are the ache of life’s mysterious ways.
The moon is restless as you lick my skin with the tip of your cock.
Tonight, the darkness holds us.
We are not alone.

– Lola Moi –