Erotica
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More moments like this,built as stretching figures,with fingers –letting fall all those handscounting our figmentedlimitations. Drastic, plasticsmiles – all seepingand connecting our mouthsfrom being apart. Though, we area flower becoming burned,lost in desire,roaring in our fire. An entertaining trail,an engraved heartdrawn as a subtle proportion,standing out above eons,above marksleft on floating glaciers, and won’t we
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Bold nights. Centered frights.I wake to find youless than a note awayon a scale of burningsheet music. To shadows, that escapewith greater speedthan fading sunlight. You will be morphedwith all your sunset curves. You will be more distant,than when you dimmed. You will be blackenedat connections of heat,becoming furtherthan stagnant distance. Fires extinguishat a bottle
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Those wraparounds,bold curves. Wide in swerves,undressing in shadows,dressing in lace.Broken hands come around,embracing poison of sweat,water of lily pads. Between you, to bewithin you, I hold all ofyour declining droplets,meant for my mouthscarred from absence,meant as a substanceto feel like real presence. I bring you down to softnessfrom those rocks, cloggedin your eyes. I help
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She undresses herself to the perpetuating tune. The offset of the offbeats, running ripples in soundwaves through heatwaves. There is an aridness to the room she stands in. Her clothes fall like landslides from her velvet flesh, though were loose to begin with. A pair of eyes, glancing to riveting nudity. A man sees a
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Echo. Echo out, and then, remain sad. We say to you, a little fog cannot blind those eyes. Hold your piercing scream to the wind, and then let us breathe of you. Allow ourselves. And then, we will dance to your tune. We will dream of what will sometimes never reach. Then, we will keep
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She sweeps. She keeps. Her music, unfolded of ivory pages in her heart. Sheets written with notes, both curled and straight. Love is of a porcelain structure. Though, she burns the pages in her conceit. She burns the paper for what she leaves. A heart, left behind, finding no need, no cure to her endless
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“A man is gifting, when he forsakes what he feels, for the feelings of a woman. A man is vain, when he forsakes what a woman will feel, for the sake of what he can attain. If, in bed, a man cannot gift to a woman her pleasure, in sole focus on her feelings, then
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She entertains to the sight of this mirror, leaning against this room’s furthest corner. Upon her blankets to a twin bed, ruffled as they are to the outcome of a night’s soaring passion, she swims through the waves of them to partake for a closer look. She is adorable to her nature, agleam to her
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Love walks. She walks. Or, she had walked, and now she lays. Upon a back with eyes to a ceiling. Her ceiling. Her mind with walls and the drawn-in above. A world of hers, this Lisa, who can smile without sincerity. Radiance makes its way over her skin, masking something more than this. A belief
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He carries her. She is guided under his palms, meant for this. For the rushing blood, the skin to be agleam under the brightening moon in the midnight hour. He has startled her, in his wrapping arms about her feebly thin waist. He watches. Her notices the whistling tension from her mouth, and he washes
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Like two petals, crossing over The other. Like one flavor, the sweetest in my mouth, Better than the flavor of sugarcane, For your eyes have the entire world within view. Your eyes, and your cries, Have my universe to behold. Love takes form, And will take form, Upon what nectar, what sweetness You drop from
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Come what will,As you, to me, the most potent pill.What will be, for my mindTruly kind?It will be you, within the greatest streams of bloodAs rolling fog.No longer will tears move their waves across my cheeks,Resulting from the sadness of absence,But, in everything from you, that delicately speaks. I see redness in everything beautifulAbout you.My
Modern Romanticism 