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this is how you lose her…

This is how you lose her.

You lose her when you forget to remember the little things that mean the world to her: the sincerity in a stranger’s voice during a trip to the grocery store, the delight of finding something lost or forgotten like a sticker from when she was five, the selflessness of a child giving a part of his meal to another, the scent of new books in the store, the surprise short but honest notes she tucks in her journal and others you could only see if you look closely.

You must remember when she forgets.

You lose her when you don’t notice that she notices everything about you: your use of the proper punctuation that tells her continuation rather than finality, your silence when you’re about to ask a question but you think anything you’re about to say to her would be silly, your mindless humming when it is too quiet, your handwriting when you sign your name in blank sheets of paper, your muted laughter when you are trying to be polite, and more and more of what you are, which you don’t even know about yourself, because she pays attention.

She remembers when you forget.

You lose her for every second you make her feel less and less of the beauty that she is. When you make her feel that she is replaceable. She wants to feel cherished. When you make her feel that you are fleeting. She wants you to stay. When you make her feel inadequate. She wants to know that she is enough and she does not need to change for you, nor for anyone else because she is she and she is beautiful, kind and good.

You must learn her.

You must know the reason why she is silent. You must trace her weakest spots. You must write to her. You must remind her that you are there. You must know how long it takes for her to give up. You must be there to hold her when she is about to.

You must love her because many have tried and failed. And she wants to know that she is worthy to be loved, that she is worthy to be kept.

And, this is how you keep her.

— Junot Díaz —

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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

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letters to a young poet…

To love is good, too: love being difficult. For one human being to love another: that is perhaps the most difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof, the work for which all other work is but preparation. For this reason young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot yet know love: they have to learn it. With their whole being, with all their forces, gathered close about their lonely, timid, upward-beating heart, they must learn to love. But learning-time is always a long, secluded time, and so loving, for a long while ahead and far on into life, is — solitude, intensified and deepened loneness for him who loves. Love is at first not anything that means merging, giving over, and uniting with another (for what would a union be of something unclarified and unfinished, still subordinate — ?), it is a high inducement to the individual to ripen, to become something in himself, to become world, to become world for himself for another’s sake, it is a great exacting claim upon him, something that chooses him out and calls him to vast things.

                                                                                                                   — Rilke