Posted on

beautiful gifts…

http://pussysexe.tumblr.com/post/40542205466

Our practice is to find our true home.
When we breathe, we breathe in such a way
that we can find our true home.
When we make a step,
we make a step in such a way
that we touch our true home with our feet.

— Thich Nhat Hanh —

Posted on

not our darkness that most frightens…

You sit in the light for me because I ask you to. You wait. You stroke my leg with a secret smile, and let me drink you in. I lose myself in my looking, in all your shadowed man-grooves. I lose my breath in your stillness. This pause we take is a lesson I don’t want to forget. I close my eyes; I want to imprint you deeper. When I open them, there you are – still waiting – wanting to be seen.

We are learning to be with one another, here, in this light that softens the heated edge of an afternoon delight. You lean back and even from this distance, I can taste your skin. Even as my supple clit thickens and my lips whet, you wait for me to be done with you. And in such thots, we stumble. Headlong, we stumble past one another in the crowded halls of Time. A cycle well-worn.

What songs are sung for a soul who seeks?
Who dances when the moon’s teat drips with longing?

There is nothing poetic about falling in love; it is starkest reality and basest need exposed. Utterly, it spends us even as we bleed. To love is to choose to be raw. Open.

Here with you, I walk blindly into an ancient light that conceals nothing, a light that wholly reveals from the inside. And suddenly, it is me sitting in front of another, being seen. We have shape-shifted into all our Unexpecteds. What there is, though, is light; a light that changes everything.

Look up, my soul whispers.
Here I am, my sweet.
Look up into Love.
Walk into the light.

I see you.

Posted on

you can’t have it all…

But you can have the fig tree and
its fat leaves like clown hands
gloved with green.

You can have the touch of a single
eleven-year-old finger
on your cheek, waking you at one
a.m. to say the hamster is back.

You can have the purr of the cat
and the soulful look
of the black dog, the look that
says, If I could I would bite
every sorrow until it fled, and when
it is August,
you can have it August and
abundantly so.

You can have love,
though often it will be mysterious,
like the white foam
that bubbles up at the top of the
bean pot over the red kidneys until
you realize foam’s twin is blood.

You can have the skin at the center
between a man’s legs,
so solid, so doll-like.

You can have the life of the mind,
glowing occasionally in priestly
vestments, never admitting
pettiness, never stooping to bribe
the sullen guard who’ll tell you
all roads narrow at the border.

You can speak a foreign language, sometimes,
and it can mean something.
You can visit the marker on the grave
where your father wept openly.

You can’t bring back the dead,
but you can have the words forgive and forget hold hands
as if they meant to spend a lifetime together.

And you can be grateful for makeup,
the way it kisses your face, half spice, half amnesia, grateful
for Mozart, his many notes racing one another towards joy, for towels
sucking up the drops on your clean skin, and for deeper thirsts,
for passion fruit, for saliva.

You can have the dream,
the dream of Egypt,
the horses of Egypt and you riding in the hot sand.

You can have your grandfather sitting on the side of your bed,
at least for a while, you can have clouds and letters, the leaping
of distances, and Indian food with yellow sauce like sunrise.

You can’t count on grace to pick you out of a crowd
but here is your friend to teach you how to high jump,
how to throw yourself over the bar, backwards,
until you learn about love, about sweet surrender,
and here are periwinkles, buses that kneel, farms in the mind
as real as Africa.

And when adulthood fails you,
you can still summon the memory of the black swan on the pond
of your childhood, the rye bread with peanut butter and bananas
your grandmother gave you while the rest of the family slept.

There is the voice you can still summon at will, like your mother’s,
it will always whisper, you can’t have it all,

but there is this.

– Barbara Ras –

Posted on

the other is for goodness…

Dear Gentle Sir,

There are worlds between us.

When your full head peers into the abyss of my need, my petals spread like wings. I am Pegasus to your Zeus. (Though, who is muse to whom remains a bone of contention – one I’m content to nibble on.) To see you astride me is to believe in quantum physics: how else could we be here? Together. Entwined and wide-eyed like this?

As I arch to make room for you inside me, each intake of air births a belief… in the Impossible and in the Possible. Each moan may sound our names but it’s true nature is a blessing… Given and Taken.

When two become one in the Mystery of Meeting, we become feathers bound by blessed winds flying over mountains of pleasure and valleys of discontent. Each strain, each grip, every time we reach for the other sings us into a new moment. We become this. Together.

And still, you are so beautiful.

Missing You,

Lola Moi xo