I never know with which 
movement to come to you
have I stunned you
never shall I hold you from being
everything you are
I only know that I keep wading  
into you with some kind 
of mesmerizing pull
this edge of water lays your siren
takes to me a drowning spot
and I suspend immobile
just to feel you overtake me 
I cover my eyes
feel you oscillate 
these waves of love 
stripping flesh 
a bone deep assault 
I clutch 
curve my back 
grasping for you
do you feel me
my bearings 
pressed to the frame
of an unknown
your presence smokes
calming  inner bee
righted and centered
in the depths of me 
an sensual identity
threads root
weaving with you 
relocating me
with exquisite
there is a beautiful truth
should that we 
or have we 

barely in time…

She sits in the car in her drive way
knowing what awaits her just a few 
short steps to her left. The car is quiet with the windows rolled up. She’s taking a few moments to gather herself together before the busyness of the evening takes over. The weather is warm today 92° but the temperature inside the vehicle slowly rises to over a 100°. Any remnants of air conditioning in the last few minutes has hurriedly leaked into the unknown. It is getting warmer she sighs, wondering what the hell to do now. The air leaving her lungs is just as stale as the air inside the car left to inhale. With each breath it gets harder to breathe. How long can she remain as this, in here, before she starts to struggle…before panic sets in and rises in her throat. She begins to feel the start of panic for air. She grabs for the handle but it wont open. The keys left in the ignition still prevents the doors from unlocking. She feels the bloodrush…the flight or fight mode switched in her brain. She wants to run, to open the door,  to flee, to feel the fresh air fill her lungs but she doesnt fumble or unlock the door,  or scramble to pull the keys out the ignition. She swallows the panic. Feels herself begin to numb. Knows that it wouldnt take any effort to lie the seat back and close her eyes. To take small little breaths until she feels sleepy.  She inhales another gulp of stale air, it is hot and thick, suffocating. Her lungs screaming for cold air but she doesn’t fight the fear. She waits for it to subside.  
She thinks how easy it would be to fall asleep. It wouldn’t take much to stop her already weakened heart. No air stops the lungs, stops the heart, stops the brain, stops her living. It would be less painful to lie here sleepily than to keep breathing if it means her world remains stagnant as it has remained. To keep feeling unloved and undesired, to keep suffering loss. Another deep breath of hot stale air and the panic begins to rise again as she struggles to breathe. How long can she remain here she thinks as her lungs scream for more…

then her phone dings…

Jerks her out of her trance…

barely in time! 

a softer breed…sweet Violence

Back when i could smell the lilacs 
I dreamt of a beautiful scene
of a softer breed of love
delicately laced; threading my soul
as I stepped into the spring breeze
feeling its magnificent breach
of my senses 
I am fully aware now
that it was foretelling of you…

you are this…

sweet Violence
come deliver
lay upon my lips

sensuous art…(part 2)

This is part 2 of the bedtime story I wrote quite a few weeks ago…enjoy! You will find a link to part 1 below

Of course as he is winding the rope
his deft fingers graze my rising nips
and softly feather along my skin.
His mouth leaves a trace of delicate kisses
in the places where the knots are to lay. 
The desire is evident as he the artist
caresses his canvas, but as any artist
perhaps understands, there is this need driving one to create perfection. The feel of the piece, timing, rapt attention essential for art to become living. His art happens to be the weaving of rope. He holds his medium with careful deliberation of placement. Perfectly  aligned to produce pleasure yet prolong satisfaction. He is an artist in anticipation, with a full vision formulating in his mind. He dare not rush, for delay, a slight hesitation creates ache. All part of his ploy to raise awareness to skin, watch my flesh come alive under his command. 

My lover inspects his art. Testing each knot…each finger and knuckle slipping underneath the rope to test its tension. 
Of course this sends sensations along my body and with each slow deliberate tug, the vibrations grow stronger. Its not long before my chest starts heaving, becoming more breathless in waiting for his touch. Quiet moans escape through my lips. My eyes look to his as one rises, deep throated. I see fire light behind his eyes. My moans are to his liking, encouraging him to move more painstakingly slow. His mouth suppresses a wickedness that will come out later, of that I am certain.

He is careful in his inspection and I so eager, so willing to let his hand slide up my thighs, slowly begin to open for him. 
There is one very carefully placed knot that must be tried. I am splayed on the bed, aching, waiting for his fingers to tug, to inspect but it does not come and my ache only increases. I find his eyes wandering again. He is searching me with wildfire burning in his gaze. I, watching him as he admires his art. So delicious is each smoldering glance between us. I feel the thrumming, a throbbing heat as the knotted rope lays snug against my sex. He knows what he has created. A firestorm! And it is building, yet intentionally delayed. There is a beautiful city beyond our private walls to first explore…

to be continued…

you can find the first post here;
Sensuous art…(part 1)

colors under my skin…

I never stop becoming M
rather I evolve 
into something beyond
the me I am now
continuing flow of rushing colors
rare culmination of many 
I do not wish to claim a singularity
rather a collage of all; of many
…of those that have touched me
for if you have found your way to me
know I have gathered your essence
pushed your colors under my skin
to blend
melt into me
to become essential to my entirety
and when you leave
(for you all find a reason to leave me)
know I love you
I carry you still…