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…
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.
(not so) easy to forget…
Dear Gentle Sir,
The first time I saw you naked, I wanted to climb you with a compulsion monkeys must have when they see a tall, glorious tree. I wanted to taste you in mango-sweet ways as one must suck and lick and test and devour divine succulence.
The first time I touched your barest of skin, I gasped.
I hope you always remember this fact.
The first time I saw you naked, I was already wet; every fold between my legs had been begging me to spread – they wanted you to hear how lovely your name sounds springing forth from inside me. I was already saying “yes” to every dream you had.
The first time you touched me, I lost my breath.
I hope you never forget this fact.
Yours from the Beginning,
Lola Moi xo