You don’t need to be inspired to write a poem.
You need to reach down and touch the thing
that’s boiling inside of you
and make it somehow useful.
— Audre Lorde —
the best preparation…
words of splendour…
to capture her soul.
— Leila Hussein —
poetry is an echo…
My tongue tastes the secrets you breathe into stillness. I feel your body tense. These places you hide, that are rarely indulged, this is where I linger. Curious. Fierce in my tenderness.
My lips barely touch you as I trace along your length. When I pause, your cock bobs against my warm skin – in the velvet-smooth dip between my mound and hip. My kisses move up your chest to your mouth. I hold the gloriously smooth head of your hard cock with my fingertips: a promise I won’t neglect. I cannot get enough of how you taste; our tongues dance deeper, enraptured, slipping along the moans we sigh.
My nipples are hard but you are distracted by their softness pressed tight against your chest. Your hands spread and hold me tighter, sliding up and down my sides, squeezing me whenever you feel the urge to speak… to enter.
We are full with feeling but the air is thick with our silence. Your cock aches to meet the juicy wet of my pussy. We smell of sex already. I say your name, barely audible; my desire for you overwhelms me, frankly. Your smile inspires my pussy lips with a rush, a pleasure unlike any waterfall.
My hair hangs down my back. You lose and then wrap your hand in my long, dark locks… you tug and spin me around. You bend me over and on your knees, suck my thick cunt from behind until my gasps drown out the messy gulps you make.
You make me so fucking wet. I please you so fucking much. I push back into your face. And as you dip, suck, and slide, you jerk your beautiful cock exactly the way you like… no, the way you love.
But I want you in me. I want to spread my legs and watch your face as your cock fills me. I try to turn around but you hold me there, devouring me in wet laps. I drop my head farther to the ground, my hands barely holding me up, my knees try not to buckle as your tongue suspends me in delicious, moaning pleasure.
“Your clit. Play with it. The way you like it. Please, your clit.”
And as your head disappears again between my cheeks and my legs, I finger my clit for you. The shaking begins almost right away. My gasps intersperse with your moans. Hearing your voice, feeling the tremor of its vibration between my legs pushes me beyond: I want you so fucking much.
I push my fingers between my folds. They brush up against your tongue and lips and soon, your fingers join mine and I am spread. You dance your tongue like a magician and I am bucking into your face, suspended on my toes as your fingers replace mine and lift me, lift me, lift.
Upright, I turn slightly and my arm wraps around your shoulders. You swoop me up and carry me to the bed. On my back, I reach for you with legs spread but you turn me over and plow into me from behind. Your jaw is set and determined. You will make me cum if it’s the last thing you ever do. I reach to the end of the bed, pushing back into your slamming hips, and beg you to make it so.
My “yes” becomes redundant with jubilation. I sing your name with breathy, harsh, hungry moans. You pull my hip even tighter and with your free hand, slip your thumb into my ass, plunging inside me now with a fervour that surprises you.
“Can you feel it? Can you feel your cock inside me?”
Your head dropping back in a throaty moan is all the answer I need. Both your cock and your thumb dig deeper as I return to my clit. I like this sandwich we’ve made. I can feel myself trying to hold my squirt in; I want to cum with you. I want to feel us soak the bed together.
“… ohplease, please, I am so close” I beg. My “yes'” now guide each pound. Our hot bodies slap all slick against the other. We are so close. We are so close. We are so so so fucking close…
when lips are silent…
the heart has a hundred tongues.
— Rumi —
and then my soul said…
… there you are,
I’ve been looking for you.
— pleasefindthis —
is it something i said…
Every First is full with each Last.
The first time you traced my body with hungry hands over slippery cloth, I discovered a depthless passion. Your first touch on my nipples, made me wet for years. The first time the head of your gorgeous cock barely parted my swollen, panting lips, I heard the rush of your moan and I never wanted to rebuild that dam.
The first time you picked me up and placed me on the bed, I was lost for wanting all of you in every way. The first time you reached for my hand, I found myself. Your first cum with me made me cry; you were so beautiful. And you remain so. Even in the shadow.
I am what I am. Soft and wanting more of you. This need is not lip service; it is the broken dam, the swinging branch that holds the brass ring, the gasp of falling falling falling, the sweet smell of my wet soaking me, awaiting you.
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.
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.
i see. i want…
no two the same…
L
L
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
— W.B. Yeats —