Distant song waking, into silence

Shifting against
Nude body splayed over
Head on shoulder
Hand captured
Fingers in mouth
Eyes rise
Electric connection
Desire and love blossom
Straddle and guide
Hand firm
Souls and bodies entwine
Heat
Lush
Lips devour
Tasting her
Her hand over heart
Pressing
Draping
Pulse spreads
Inside
Draws ragged gasps
Soft sound

Startled I wake
Eyes open
Scent of her lingers on still air
But I know she’s distant
Never was
Maybe never be
Still
Dreams and hearts
Connected
Desirous
Distance
Of little consequence
A choice away
Wishing I knew
What path lead to you

Cross bent lovers

Love is not a thing I know how to make
It flows from me, encases like a cocoon
Hardened shell waiting for going slow
To become now
Until burst forth as chrysalis shatters
Though, truth be told, not much visible change had occurred
Rather rewrite the inside of my brain
No longer drowning in depression
Brain still sad
Eyes still crying at times
But not looking for a way out in the explosion of brain and teeth
Not looking to jump into the sharks mouth for one last thrill before the bite
Reworked change but of the heart and mind

And what may seem at odds
every body responds to different triggers
It’s easy to wallow in the flowers of touch bloomed ecstasy
But more, to discover each nerve, each pressure
To make of us a discovery
Revealing beauty
Exposing us bare

Symphonies begin with a single note

Precision breaks down
Passion steals fire
Tendons writhe waking
Dreams

Inside
Two become whole
Surface from what was to
Shattered silence

Artless in frenzied glory
Panting breathe spilling out
Just begun

Let time stop
Waves and undulations
Wake tired minds

Demonstrate harsh lessons
In gentle bites
Hands making
What the foolish call sin

Lust wakes in the heart of love
Turn banked fires to lava
Inexorable
Until spent
Again and again

Skin and mind too sensitive to continue
Hold you close
Taste sweat
Quench thirst

Never enough

A lovers promise

I can inflict upon you such pleasure that lines begin to blur and only your desires dictate which is pain and which is pleasure.
I can make your mind tremble with anticipation of my touch.
With trepidation and luscious full lips.
I can show you a world where only your limits contain you.
Where nothing is forbidden.
Where all pains become pleasures and all sensation serves its truest purpose.
Give me your hand and I will make you mine.
And becoming mine know safety and sin.

Annual rant about love

I hate loving as I do. It seems a form of madness to see this crack in someone’s facade and for the briefest instant see who they are, who they might be. Then to fall in love with them. It’s crazy. Everyone says, experts, psychologists, philosophers, etc. Everyone says love takes awhile to form. But for me, that only happens if I’m actively impeding it or if I sense something…off.

Otherwise the fall is inevitable. So yes I hate loving in this way because when I’m not with someone, I pine. I pine for all whom I love but am not with. Who say that “I mean so much or If only this or that.” And I rail against this cage of almost but not quite and shout “Why not!”

While I may accept the choices of others, because I must, I do not agree. Better to allow love to bloom in fullness, to throw yourself into it completely, to dance in its madness and delirious joy than to hold back and be safe or wait for more opportune times.

There is no perfect time. No mythical place where it’s easy. No set of actions that make life easy. But love, the luxury we have.
To not choose love is a blasphemy to me. A thing profane.

We live in a time and place where love can be chosen. Where who you are with is not dictated solely by economics and opportunity. We are not limited by social circle, physical location, or class. We get to choose.

How can the choice not be love? How can comfort be more important than the chance at joy? All the comfort in the world cannot make up for a lack, for the heartache, the silent loneliness.

That moment when my heart sped up, when you put your head to my chest, was love. Some would say it’s sex, but I say “Bah, boring.” Sex without emotion is empty. It’s the equivalent of eating candy. As compared to a meal of complexity and satisfaction.

Look me in the eye and tell me you are happy with your life. That your days all sit in the band between content and joy. And if not, define and discover why not.

If I am not the choice that brings you to the place of joy, then I implore, find it. Find love. Don’t just accept, strive. Don’t just survive, live. I don’t care if it’s with me, though I would prefer it. Choose love. Not just the love that is really like. Choose to exist in a state of love. It’s better than the alternatives. Even if it is fucking painful.

Painful desire

Surface from deep sleep
inflamed by my need of you
choking on my desire
clenched like a fist too tightly around a stone
a stretched string waiting for your touch
Waiting for the melody playing in my head to be given voice
but I’m alone
This pain recedes
never satiated
no action is enough
without you in my arms
To set me free

Emotional shotgun: feeling lonely during the holidays edition

I have dreamed a thousand lives and in each you are there. I’ve kissed you a thousand ways. Made love to you with word and skin. Fucked like beasts. Commanded and caressed. But in each, you will not stay. All I have learned, all the pleasures, the highs and the lows, all my knowledge I bring and still you walk away. I bare my soul and jump with my heart wide open, and still you walk away. And so I wake, because why live in the dreaming if I cannot be with you. I wake and try to find a way to another.

But I cannot get away from us. Why are you still single? Always that question. Always the answer, “That’s complicated.” Hoping they let it go, hoping to allow you to know me better before most of my secrets come spilling out.

I suppose I could lie. That’s the logical thing to do. But I can’t betray your memory. I won’t lie. So they hear a tale of sadness and pain and depression and that’s no way to get a second or third date. Yes, date.

Netflix and chill is bullshit. Even if we get to the point where sex is involved, I’m going to refer to those nights as the nights we fuck. Or better, as scene’s. Give me some emotional connection or give me a paddle in my hand. Preferably both.

A proper date. With dancing, with music, with conversation.

Fuck! You can see how bad I am. I’m all over the place even just writing about looking for a relationship.

Just shortcut it. If you like me, read me, and call me SIR and mean it. We’ll get there. Roll the dice. Make a move. My caution comes from a good place, it’s not lack of assertiveness.

Or ask me to text you, apparently I’ll ramble on and on.