comfyshoes Posted December 10, 2007 Posted December 10, 2007 At the stand of this love she is unfinished, an hour glass with sand still flowing. Suddenly shattered, tiny pieces of glass frightened and bleeding on the sheets, one lovers' beauty singing inside the other yet she can no longer answer though her mouth is hungry for the tongue that once flamed her into a dithering fool moaning, sighing, arching, doing anything needing to dissipate herself and her lover two parched nude bodies in flagrant lust. And one is quick to say that is all it is but she is a liar for there is more to us, there is this elusive unveiling, lifted with compassionate fingers, that won't be denied, a palpable thing wanting, needing our individual truths. Now the stronger lover is torn her lovers' body has become leaden she is too quiet no matter what she thinks, I will always creep upon her flesh anchor her to me without reserve but with a kind of love like that of an overturned vase, reckless spilling the scent of jasmine everywhere a gang of thorns and buds cool pain and hot pleasure, that becomes an addiction surging and sprouting. Washing her with myself, my being - I won't let her go. Not her wet kisses or her sleepy sighs, nor her murmuring love poems that make me feel desired and less alone.
Recommended Posts