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we are everything in between…

we are everything in between
Your hands are wonderful, especially when their holding brings forth such
honeysuckle… sucking… goodness.

That I might be muse for such outpourings baffles me.
The certainty that I might be something more than less still eludes me
like insights newly born and swaddled in words still half-formed.

That you might allow me as witness to speak on our behalf, here
illuminates my shortcomings
as scribe to all that is profound and simple.

(There, I see it: your back swathed in silence.)

We are never more than what the other decides
and yet, we remain always as whispers,
as Pleasure that cannot keep a secret for long
and so, we are compelled.

In this mystery, I see you.
In this, we are met.
And so, are we lost.

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scylla and charybdis…

To grip your beautiful hard in my hand is to lick the bottom of an ice cream cone filled with my most favourite flavour. Ever. To watch your head fall back as my fingers disappear between my silky smooth folds is to feel my heart fall soft and free into my throat with each peaking roller coaster dive. To moan our pleasure in unison is to wake to the smell of fresh brewed coffee and bacon on the grill; it is home.  To return your reach and hold you is to dream a dream I once lived.
For a moment.

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you are this glow of pleasure on my face…

Slide your tongue here, where I am softest.
Kiss me like you mean it.
Pin my arms above my head, nibble my neck
As you slide your thick need between my sweet, wet folds.
Hold my legs over my head and suckle me from ass to clit.
Don’t stop; I want you to make me moan.

Pull your cock out, free yourself, and give into my admiration.
Let me tongue you in those places you barely touch,
Have rarely given over to another.
Feel my hands on you; holding, pulling, caressing with my care.
Forgive my urgency, my need, my wet.
Believe every time I’ve ever adored you; there is no other story.

It may be the full moon calling us.
It may be the waves echoing memory.
After all, the moontide reminds us that past is always present.

There is no mystery or charm to the Why.
It may be the simple fact that you never left.
It may be the deepest truth that I am here because you are here
And you are you,
And you are enough.
We are worthy of our desire, of this union,
And of this heat that builds into fire.

In this, we are well-met.
Mirrors to the other in surprising ways.
It is not enough to be flesh; we are more
In this meeting of mind, body, and soul.
This, we know.

— Lola Moi —

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strait crossing…

strait crossing
The wind seduces me.
Always.
Like your eyes do.
Like your mouth… and tongue does.
Like your hands do.
And each sweet moan.
It matters not that I tell myself:
I am a creature of the land and my soul is the water.
It’s always the wind that captures me unawares.