Diary entry: 9/23/17

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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.

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Love letters from the Tormented

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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.

Diary entry: 10/16/17

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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?

Diary entry: 10/15/17

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Because I alone am not able to replicate your abilities nor your performance, I am left in agony tonight. Why do you give so much when we’re engaged? Is there something that the lips are forbidden to say? Must I continue to read what’s written against my thighs? I want to be nothing more than simply yours. Why can’t you see this? I’ll halt on another journey of pointless words with you this evening, I am a lover but I am no fool. I should have called this morning but what good would that be if I’m still alone at night?

My lover, I am tormented. Come save me.

Diary entry: 10/11/17

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Photographer: Michel Perez

I just need to stop. Un-learn the desire to want, to want for more. Detaching from the notion that the sweat accumulating between sheets somehow correlates to the intensity of more than lust. We are no more than our selfishness. No more than the flesh we wear. We are no more my sweet, sweet lover.

Diary entry: 10/10/17

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Photo information: Anais Mali in “Bienvenida, Cuba” by Benny Horne for Vogue Spain, March 2016.

Anything I can do to keep my mind off of it. Working overtime. Writing overtime. Drinking till I can’t hold back. Drinking till my words mean more to me than ever so I bite down to keep them from spilling. I’m doing whatever I can find to keep my mind off of it. Sitting in a car outside of my yoga class trying to find my center in a 2009 Mazda 3 with the music thumping. I’ve always liked a lot of bass in my songs, so the windows are shaking and I’m trying. I’m trying not to think of why I feel the need to keep explaining to ears that won’t listen why I need to keep my mind off of it. A lot times nothing ever makes sense and we keep moving. We move through life hoping to connect the dots. The last time I made a connection I used my tongue. What are we doing again? Is this feeling good to you? I’m tormented. I’m focused on making sure to keep my mind off of it but you’ve been with me all day.

I’ve bit my lip twice reminiscing on the excitement of pain.

Why do we live this way?

Diary entry:10/9/17

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It’s warm tonight. Bare feet against the heated pavement. I love watching the sunset from the third floor. Nothing but a t-shirt that barely covers my breast and cheeky boy shorts on this evening. Maybe a few stars joining in on this show. I feel good. I feel full. I feel sexy again. And it’s on nights like this I’m convinced I need to get away from you.

But I remember those lips. They feel so good. So soft.

And I’m stuck.

I wanna taste you again. Does this ever end?