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the saddest poem…

…I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too.

On nights like this, I held her in my arms.
I kissed her so many times under the infinite sky.

She loved me, sometimes I loved her.
How could I not have loved her large, still eyes?

I can write the saddest poem of all tonight.
To think I don’t have her. To feel that I’ve lost her.

To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.

What does it matter that my love couldn’t keep her.
The night is full of stars and she is not with me.

That’s all. Far away, someone sings. Far away.
My soul is lost without her.

As if to bring her near, my eyes search for her.
My heart searches for her and she is not with me.

The same night that whitens the same trees.
We, we who were, we are the same no longer.

I no longer love her, true, but how much I loved her.
My voice searched the wind to touch her ear.

Someone else’s. She will be someone else’s. As she once
belonged to my kisses.
Her voice, her light body. Her infinite eyes.

I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her.
Love is so short and oblivion so long.

Because on nights like this I held her in my arms,
my soul is lost without her.

Although this may be the last pain she causes me,
and this may be the last poem I write for her.

—Pablo Neruda—

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and still later on…

I lift my ass just a little, just enough for you to see the edge of my lips, just enough for you to make me shiver with anticipation when you lick my petaled edges. I spread my legs this wide so that the every time you’re alone with your glorious cock, yhttp://68.media.tumblr.com/ce79a94f7c9e0a33bf20027c166c5d72/tumblr_o92ps9BEpA1vs8bzjo1_500.gifou will remember every moan I’ve ever made with you: fucking me with your eyes, your wink, your smile, your cock tip, your fingertips, your tongue tip, your every length and width deep inside me and mine, your mouth your mouth your mouth, fucking me into moaning me into loving me with every hungry touch. I want you now like I wanted you then, doing things that you’ll never forget… ever.

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when time is spent…

Once, I met a man and I very nearly came the first time he entered me. I rode this man but I didn’t love him; I loved how his cock made me feel. He filled me beyond anything I’d ever known before.

A bird sits on my windowsill.
It fluffs its feathers and waits for others to arrive.
It doesn’t look up at the sun.
It sees me through my window and it simply serenades.

Many times, I made a man I (once) loved cum. I looked into his eyes as we filled one another; I looked because I saw him for who he was and still found joy. His lies filled me beyond anything I’d ever known before.

Sometimes we sleepwalk
Daylight fluffs its nighttime wings and whispers.
Someone traces secrets in the air that we cannot quite hear.
We blind ourselves – as one with the deaf and dumb.

I cry your name in deepest pleasure. I pull you close and feel impossibly new.  The breath I once thought my own, rides the wind over water, through trees of cedar, under bark. I sit and see truth.

In life we are undone.
In waking-dreams we are made new.
With the right person, healing happens
But first, we must awaken.

 

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but thunder…

Close your eyes. Remember this moment:

My mouth lingering on your skin.
My hands lightly tracing you – pausing to hold you.
My tongue licking the water off of you as it trails down your body.
My smooth, wet skin settled warm against yours.
Your breath heavy; an echo to mine.

Notice how this creates a symphony
of “yes” in your mind.
and “more.”
and “don’t stop, oh, God, don’t.”

Open your eyes. Notice how this symphony plays on.

but thunder

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to which we are attached…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There are things I remember on nights like this when the moon is full and wind blows off the crashing waves of a lake.

There was the way it felt to walk hand-in-hand, your tall shoulder shadowing mine. Our smiles, silent backdrop to the tinkling summer leaves around us. The grit of sand underfoot, wrapped around my sighs just like your strong arms once held me.

The kiss that stopped us both. The hands that peeled our clothes. The legs that gripped you as you lifted and carried me. The bed that creaked under the weight of our anticipation.

The smooth edges of your groaning cock. The weight of your chest and hips. The wet roaming of our tongues. The bucking of our moans. The spreading of my legs and bending of my back. The fucking of our fingers and mouths and more… so much.

The way it felt to look into your eyes and want more. The way it felt to see my desire mirrored. The way you moaned and reached… for me, for your cock, for me… again. The spontaneous shifts and spreadings and splitting aparts to deeper wet, to heat beyond either of our wildest dreams.

To want you. To see you. To fuck you. To squirt for you. To cum with you. To find in you, reciprocal delight.

There are things I remember on nights like this when the moon is full and wind blows off the crashing waves of a lake. Mostly, I remember magic and minor miracles… puffs of Goodness. Mostly, I remember you.

Longingly Yours,

Lola Moi xo

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far beyond yourself…

jubilation

L

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

drink from this, my well of jubilation
seep into the crevice where stories blossom
triumphant
glorious
fearless

lead me to the water’s edge
see me as a vision
see me as i am
a woman
a man
a heart beating strong
a massive jumble of a puzzle
lost and found

drink from this, my well of silent suffering
seep into the crevice where laments thrive
searing
formidable
cleansing

my hand cups the truth
covers my mouth
and still you sing to me from tomorrow
i will meet you there
i will not falter
nor hide
there is no shame
in who or what has been

i will meet you
there
across a chasm i cannot fathom
i will meet you there
there
i will be

L
– Lola Moi –

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riding the elevator into the sky…

As the fireman said:
Don’t book a room over the fifth floor
in any hotel in New York.
They have ladders that will reach further
but no one will climb them.
As the New York Times said:
The elevator always seeks out
the floor of the fire
and automatically opens
and won’t shut.
These are the warnings
that you must forget
if you’re climbing out of yourself.
If you’re going to smash into the sky.
L

Many times I’ve gone past
the fifth floor,
cranking upward,
but only once
have I gone all the way up.
Sixtieth floor:
small plants and swans bending
into their grave.
Floor two hundred:
mountains with the patience of a cat,
silence wearing its sneakers.
Floor five hundred:
messages and letters centuries old,
birds to drink,
a kitchen of clouds.
Floor six thousand:
the stars,
skeletons on fire,
their arms singing.
And a key,
a very large key,
that opens something —
some useful door —
somewhere —
up there.

– Anne Sexton (1975) –