You cannot love someone into deserving you.
— r.h. Sin —
present tense…
Dear Gentle Sir,
Yes, I arched my body towards you; I was compelled. Utterly. Your soft, intense gaze sucked me in, much like your mouth did, and both inspired the most delicious moans. Even now, you turn me on like no other and I still want to be with you, especially like that: open, hungry, seen… gloriously wet.
I want you to remember how you make me feel. For those times when you are alone with thots of me, I want you to grip the shaft of your beautiful cock that once housed itself in my mouth (and between the soft petaled edges of my warm pussy). I want you to see my looking deep into the You of you and feel the muse once more. As you pump on your knees, I want our fuck-cries to haunt your cum.
I want your remembering to be a knowing – a certainty of what Pleasure we are together. No doubts, no second-guessing, no faint-hope clause every time you see my name or embrace me. Because again, I am wet. Here and now. For all of you.
As I Must,
Lola xo
you can’t. not yet. so don’t…
“What does it take to inspire you?”
He asked.
“I need to fall in love,” she replied.
“Surely there must be an easier way,”
he retorted.
“Why, I have already fallen in love twice today,” she answered,
“First, when I set my eyes upon the
ever precipitous mountains that surround us,
guarding us like the skin that stretches along our bones,
and second,
with the uncertainty in your voice when you asked
if there is anything easier than falling in love.”
— n. o. —
perhaps you’re still sleeping…
Slowly the morning climbs towards the day.
As for the poem, not this poem but any
poem, do you feel its sting? Do you
feel its hope, its entrance to a community? Do
you feel its hand in your hand?— Mary Oliver —
ffarwel fy paramour…
And I asked myself about the present:
how wide it was,
how deep it was,
how much was mine to keep.— Kurt Vonnegut —
you are this glow of pleasure on my face…
Slide your tongue here, where I am softest.
Kiss me like you mean it.
Pin my arms above my head, nibble my neck
As you slide your thick need between my sweet, wet folds.
Hold my legs over my head and suckle me from ass to clit.
Don’t stop; I want you to make me moan.
Pull your cock out, free yourself, and give into my admiration.
Let me tongue you in those places you barely touch,
Have rarely given over to another.
Feel my hands on you; holding, pulling, caressing with my care.
Forgive my urgency, my need, my wet.
Believe every time I’ve ever adored you; there is no other story.
It may be the full moon calling us.
It may be the waves echoing memory.
After all, the moontide reminds us that past is always present.
There is no mystery or charm to the Why.
It may be the simple fact that you never left.
It may be the deepest truth that I am here because you are here
And you are you,
And you are enough.
We are worthy of our desire, of this union,
And of this heat that builds into fire.
In this, we are well-met.
Mirrors to the other in surprising ways.
It is not enough to be flesh; we are more
In this meeting of mind, body, and soul.
This, we know.
— Lola Moi —