You can’t go back and change the beginning,
but you can start where you are
and change the ending.
— C. S. Lewis —
manifesto…
Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
— Wendell Berry —
and there you are…
Beauty and grace are performed
whether or not we will or sense them.
The least we can do is try to be there.
— Annie Dillard —
crumbs along the path…
‘I don’t believe in magic,’
The young boy said.
The old man smiled,
‘You will, when you see her.’
— Atticus —
fever pitch…
You place me at the perfect height: our eyes peer directly into the other’s. your hips gently push my legs apart as you move in to kiss me. And like today’s welcome rain, the tenderness of your lips refreshes me like each drop of cleansing, wet air. We pause to simply drink one another in. Your gaze incites release. I feel my heart sob with joy.
I trace your sweet face and with each adoring sweep, I hold you so that I might give you the gift that lesser men have quailed from: I see you with open eyes. I accept your imperfect, scared smallest self. I smile, willing a courage I barely recognize myself. My fingertips imprint light into every crack they find. I trust, and in this, I offer you the best of myself.
You can feel pressure inside your chest building; it builds inside the history of your borders and boundaries, inside what others have forbidden and allowed, inside the dam that barely holds your fear at bay. You feel lost inside all this… space. Permission. You look down, away from me.
“It… feels… too much,” you say.
“To be found?” I ask.
Startled, you meet my eyes. And suddenly kiss me again. This time, on my temples, my brow, my high cheekbones, my sweet dimples, and full lips. Your hands hold me as your body urgently speaks words you’re not yet brave enough to say.
Your fingers deftly – tenderly – slide from my knee, up my velvety inner thigh and lighty… so so lightly, your fingers move up and down, inching closer to the wet that swells my pussy. Reaching the velvety corner deep between my legs, between my thighs and mound, you look at me again, intent. You watch my expression as your fingers slowly so slowly flip and dance, back and forth – this time moving closer to my swollen, pulsing lips.
The fever has pitched. My petal-soft folds moan their pleasure through my throat. It comes out a gasping breath, a call and response led by my voice saying your name. My panties now to the side, I lean back with my long legs spread and I hook my calves and feet around you.
This time our shared gaze smolders. This time, when you put your fingers in my mouth, one-by-one, your jaw drops a little with anticipation. My looking at you is unadorned. I want you inside me so fucking much. I am hunger and need and promise personified. I am yours. We are your bidding…
apodyopsis…
She has always surprised you
into surprising yourself.
— starving4rtist —
its own kind of freedom…
I wrote love notes of various kinds… here and there… hoping I really was seen, feeling against thinking that perhaps finally, my trust was worth giving. I thot: this is what all those story books and fairytales were trying to describe. Swept off my feet, I fell.
Too late I realized I was wrong: when you looked at me, it was not a promise, it was not a meeting of well-mets; it was a warning.
… so many love notes.
Human hearts are fragile, made particularly malleable thanks to the mind-bending heat of misguided belief. Pain births deeper understanding as it sinks into scars you believed to be healed (or, at least, healing). Blame, lies, disrespect, and silence disappears love. We become rank with longing for something that never really was.
This is the struggle to Living.
This is why we pray for blindness.
Loving the Wrong One illuminates if our soul stays open.
I see you even more clearly now but more: I see me.
the call of the wild…
There’s a whisper on the night-wind,
there’s a star agleam to guide us,
And the Wild is calling, calling . . .
let us go.
— R.W. Service —
out of the crowd…
1.
Out of the rolling ocean, the crowd, came a drop gently to me,
Whispering, I love you; before long I die:
I have travelled a long way, merely to look on you, to touch you:
For I could not die till I once looked on you,
For I feared I might afterward lose you.2.
Now we have met, we have looked, we are safe;
Return in peace to the ocean, my love;
I too am part of that ocean, my love—we are not so much separated;
Behold the great rondure—the cohesion of all, how perfect!
But as for me, for you, the irresistible sea is to separate us,
As for an hour carrying us diverse—yet cannot carry us diverse for ever;
Be not impatient—a little space—know you, I salute the air, the ocean,
and the land,
Every day, at sundown, for your dear sake, my love.— Walt Whitman —
chasing the wrong things…
can make you lose
the good thing.