I play on the notion that there’s a possibility something more can be created. Something more can be given. Something else can be tasted. It’s another form of optimism I️ must share with you. It’s silly to be hopeful that you would consider ever wanting to be and have more with a woman like myself. But there’s more to me than you think or know or understand or could comprehend. There’s no joy in continuing to live in love this way. None. The importance of separation is key in keeping it together. Do you understand? Workless with emotions and focus on necessities is how I️ maneuver and am able to sleep at night. The only thing we ever want to accomplish is to feel alive. To feel that gust of wind beneath us, taking us higher and higher, to the point that fear no longer exist. And underneath you I️ can close my eyes and feel the world begin to take form. Maybe I’ve romanticized you to the point you are without flaws, but what is writing these love letters to you if I️ don’t get to glorify all that you are? I️ want you in ways that I️ shouldn’t because there are ways that I️ would give myself that you wouldn’t, but it’s a quarter after six and I’ve been sleeping with thoughts of you all night. I️ wish there was a better way… but
Burying my face in the bodies of other lovers in my futile attempts to forget you. Giving them pieces of me that are undeniably meant for you. I only want to forget the sensation but you are embedded in my flesh. Embedded in the memory of me. You are tormenting me whenever you are not here. The desire to be with my lover is growing but the desire is in vain. I am overwhelmed with the feelings of future dissatisfaction thinking about never having the chance to feel those lips. To kiss those lips. The obsession with the lips of my lover is feeding more into this gut wrenching sensation. Why does the lover who moves the body in such ways deny the openness of more than just a warm thighs? Why does it feel that nothing is ever reciprocated? I fall for you every chance that’s given and it’s involuntary, for I would have never decided to give myself in this way. But I miss you. I can’t deny that. To have been able to have this effect on me I am finding it hard to still convince myself that maybe we shouldn’t be meeting like this. Running over the minutes laughing in between as if nothing else matters. I could be full and still be unable to be satisfied from just one taste. What makes you envied is making me weak and I would rather find another way to live. Another way to be.
But I am still screaming out your name even in the presence of others.
Surely you want me back, lover. Because I still want you.
There are three pillars that lead to the death of a relationship: complacency, contentment and comfortability. Co-occurring with periods of emotional and physical neglect. The mind begins to preoccupy itself with other worldly things. No showers of compliments, no real acknowledgements of the woman before him. A lot of words beginning with the letter C and yet, nothing is in representation to the correlation of the woman cuming. I don’t know, maybe, just maybe, this is why I am here tonight. The other night lying there in bed and, there is an understanding in the inability to justify the actions that lead to me being here with you, but the body was limp and the flesh was ripe and sore. There is no real care to justify the natural desires of the body, the defense is pointless. So, what is expected of a woman who is bored? Tired of denying herself the rightful pleasures of enjoying every millisecond of an utmost pleasing orgasm. How many other ways can it be expressed that there are needs that are being ignored? Begging in silence for the touch of my lover, the aches begin. My lover has no idea what he does to me. Mi amante, dime qué quieres hacer conmigo esta noche. Mi vida, mi cuerpo te necesita…..The shame in looking at a garden in which no one cares to water and tend to anymore. The three pillars of death are present and I am asked if I’m ever scared to get caught. Caught? What is there to get caught with or of or from or what have you? You’re speaking to a woman who is trying to survive. The risk, that excitement, that satisfaction that my lover brings is worth it every time. Am I️ scared? Fear leaves the moment you accept that sometimes things just don’t change no matter how hard you pray or try. At this point, what is there really to lose?
Maybe there’s a misunderstanding, can you repeat the question?
Ive been writing and then I’ve been stopping. Stopping because I start to question what I’m writing instead of just feeling the words. So I’ve gotten scared to share and just been keeping it to myself. I’ve been writing to reach someone, anyone but I don’t feel that I am. I don’t feel that my words are making sense and I am becoming overtly critical of my own art form. I need to find a way to unblock and create again. Where i feel comfortable and confident and secure in myself that I am ok with what I am creating. It’s a struggle. But I know exactly what I need and there is no other way for me to achieve it other than to leave my situations behind and be free. Lately it’s just been a routine effort in my part to keep my head above water. Like I’m not even trying to survive really, I’m just doing what’s necessary to make it seem that I am. There’s feelings of suffocation and deprivation and loneliness and just everything that shouldn’t be existing in my presence is just here and staying past their welcome. Maybe that’s where I screwed up? Once you acknowledge the feelings, you know you have to do something, right? That’s why I love denial. I can be anyone and feel anyway I want without ever having to re-examine the truth and what’s in front of me. How long does this last usually? Well there are people who are 50+ that seem to be working out just fine in my opinion. I can muster up another 22 yrs of this role.
But the point of the matter is I’m blocked. I’m backed up. I’m still pushing myself to write even though I suck. I have books and empty wine glasses all over the floor of my bedroom. Lolita has taken a fuckin turn for the worst and quite frankly, as sick as this book is, I am quite intrigued at how delicately written this story is. Nietzsche is still in the corner because I ain’t ready to be dealing with his ass and Anais, well I pick her up when I begin to feel hopeless in my situation. Hopeless being used for a more delicate term than bored.
I’ll keep writing. That much I will do. Everything else, well, I’ll just let it fall and wherever it lands I’ll deal with it later.
Sunday morning blues. I dreamed of you last night. Reminiscing on conversations between breast and lips. I forget the actual language you speak, it’s on the tip of my tongue the way you wore me that night. It’s some island in the Caribbean, but the importance is irrelevant at this time. The bed is empty and it’s taking everything in me not to say I wanna share another Sunday morning with you. Certain memories are not imbedded in you the way are in me and I think that’s where our disconnect lies. The only time we really speak is when the hunger is no longer deniable and we feast on each other. You know, you really are delicious and I appreciate the back rubs when I’m enjoying you.
Life is sad sometimes, my lover. But we can’t ponder on the intangible.
As you have so effortlessly taught me.
I’ll always love the way you wear an afternoon sunset.
Think it was a quarter to three this morning, trying to get ready for work, the usual routine to begin a Saturday. Body barely able to maneuver itself from the left side of the bed. The Tiffany grey velvet chaise in the corner sitting there appearing lonely, empty. The lighting was giving it a soft silhouette against my pale creme colored walls. It never matters what time of the morning it is, I never want to leave the bed where you so selfishly had your way with me. The thoughts that fill the mind as soft curls descend upon satin pillows, man are we gorgeous together. Sometimes a smile appears across lips just in awe and disbelief. The topic of your complexion is my favorite subject. It’s total perfection. Utterly blissful to lay lips against. A few words were once spoken with promises to stay away. My lover, you are dangerous to a woman like myself…. The ability to reduce a woman of substance to nothingness lies in the most prized part of your being. The way words are written against the flesh, the forceful nature of screaming out the name of the man who moves mountains closer together so that the tongue can caress peaks in unison. The selfishness to the core of our bones is overpowering a sane mind to quit while she is ahead. Yet, I cannot fathom another night without the warmth of you between my thighs. I should feel guilty but I am overwhelmed as replays of tongue and erected flesh flash vividly against the darkness of an empty room.
Oh lover, you are more than just a dangerous man. You are the man who rules me and I cannot stay away from the man who’s lips are made of silk and honey.
It’s been jazz all evening. The skies changed and the tempo stayed the same. Deep melodies playing from a third story apartment with the balcony doors wide open. I guess I’m tryna erase a few memories tonight. Do you remember that movie Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Certain scenes replay themselves and I can’t help but think maybe they were really on to something. I hate the way you preoccupy my daily thoughts. How I think of softer ways to tell you my desires. It’s terrible when we can’t get what we want, don’t you think?