each letter is truth…

I don’t know how to write love letters.
But I wanted to tell you that my whole being opened for you.

Since I fell in love with you everything is transformed
and is full of beauty…
love is like an aroma, like a current, like rain.
You know, my sky, you rain on me
and I, like the earth, receive you.

— Frida Kahlo —

talisman…

i write these words
quickly repeat them
softly to myself
this talisman for you
fold this prayer
around your neck fortify
your back with these
whispers
may you walk ever
loved and in love
know the sun
for warmth the moon
for direction
may these words always
remind you your breath
is sacred words
bring out the god
in you

— Suheir Hammad —

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

just a second choice…

I cup your balls in my hand as you straddle me on the bed to kiss me. Your mouth is sweet and my back arches up; I want my nipples to brush your broad chest. Our tongues play while my hand methodically works your hard into harder. Up and down and around, I twist you into a pleasure of moans.

I smile into our next kiss and you pause to look at me. Suspended above me, you look deeper into me than anyone else ever has. I love this about you – your boldness with me. The reward: I let you see me… it… I let you see how hungry I am for you. The tease of my smile and the dimples of delight in my cheeks give me – your bright-eyed lover – away.

I pull on your lip with my teeth as I pull your cock closer and with both hands, I knead that first gasp out of you. My legs splay under you, the inside of my knees pushing against the outside of yours. Every gasp and moan that escapes your beautiful mouth works me  into a state of wet. I am clever and tenacious, tender and wicked, saucy and sweet with your skin, with your mouth and the stunning thick of your amazing cock.

I want to be ready for you when you finally decide you must fuck me.
You aren’t the only one waiting to fill me.

I slide down until your cock slips into my mouth. My throat sucks you all the way in… and back. I push you deeper from behind. I hold you with my lips and suck you suck you suck. You want to thrust but I hold you still. You want to grab me everywhere. Your hands flail as I push your hips towards me just a. little. deeper. I suck you suck you suck.

This confidence I have with you translates so clearly: I will have you dizzy with desire. My mouth full of glorious, rock-hard cock, I watch you now as my hands push up behind your balls and slide back and forth, forth and back, back further until I slip inside and find that secret you keep. I slip inside and your eyes widen as you look down at me. Pressing down on that sweet bulb inside you, your gasps become cries and finally, finally! You finally pump… as you must.

You are so close.
But you want to fill me more… to spread my folds – in the deepest, hottest wet I am.

Fuck.
I’m more than ready.
Fuck fuck fuck
Fuck, yes.
Y.e.s.

 

the couple in the park…

A man walks alone in the park and beside him a woman walks, also alone. How does one know? It is as though a line exists between them, like a line on a playing field. And yet, in a photograph they might appear a married couple, weary of each other and of the many winters they have endured together. At another time, they might be strangers about to meet by accident. She drops her book; stooping to pick it up, she touches, by accident, his hand and her heart springs open like a child’s music box. And out of the box comes a little ballerina made of wood. I have created this, the man thinks; though she can only whirl in place, still she is a dancer of some kind, not simply a block of wood. This must explain the puzzling music coming from the trees.

the couple in the park
— Louise Glück —