When I do touch her,
there is this immediate
sensory need to know pleasure,
not my own,
hers, the sense of where I might be,
will soon discover a gasp,
a garment with my teeth,
a gently bite of her shoulder,
swept away to a naked caress,
and my tongue and lips explore
her every being,
and yet, we are just beginning,
I move with hands on shoulders,
her open neck waiting,
enough to know when touch,
her head flails,
wanting my every motion to capture,
the essence of her woman.
… and then I will let my hands cup
the simple nature of her being,
lips finding, fingertips tracing,
tongue a twirl,
now it is her gasps will let my hands
fall to discover a center,
that part of her beauty I imagine,
only when apart how much I would carefully,
taste her excitement.
For it is then we know there is integrity,
in the nature of woman, in woman,
in her wanting to feel,
wanting to reveal that which will
allow me to reach inside her whole.
Oh I have tried,
I do love you with all my being,
and would sacrifice a world,
one filled with reputation and avarice,
for the soul that might challenge
a societal norm.
How often would I tell her
she completes the essence of my reason
to examine any notion in my mind.
How easily could I look in her eyes
and tell exactly what it was that mattered
to me in the moment.
It is always you,
all ways lead to your heart,
and it is me that breaks the path,
by locking onto selfish needs,
rather than the appreciation of just how
magical my life has become with you by my side.
Oh to vent a passion like ours,
would write volumes of beauty and grace,
carve into tree trunks, the solid hearts
that symbolize summers and hot spring days,
and impulsive scenarios where two people,
just allowed life to take them in its arms,
and kneel before the starlit sky,
a kiss, a smile, a gasp,
and it was then,
I knew I could know no other love.
We choose our mood,
depends upon the time of day,
time of year,
time we stayed away from
wherever it might be that could
cause a sordid
amount of uneasy fear,
you know the affair.
We always want the other to be okay,
perhaps it is a personality,
the one we rather delight to be
inside a state of mind that allows,
to carry the weight of our day.
It comes in tears,
when the winds take hold of our sanity,
we watch the clouds convey their own
sort of spirituality,
that combined element of nature
alongside the human condition,
and when the storms arrive,
well, someone might suggest
It is in love
we find this mystique,
the muse of our idyllic fountain,
an eternal fire,
a desire to always know the beauty,
to run across the elegance,
in our every turn,
So to be forlorn then,
is it an unhappy sort of feeling lost,
or might it perhaps be
might it be,
which when we find our reflective
personality examines our reality,
we become okay,
with a little time,
just don’t ever forget what love really is,
I won’t, I promise.
I often wonder about notions,
an idea, plays out in my head,
I formulate my own opinion,
a funny sort of discrete decision.
Not yet, my mind tells me,
not ready to share with anyone else,
and there begins the battle,
because I do,
I so want to,
there’s a part of me that wants to free the world,
my world I suppose,
actually, our world,
because I think, wait a second, I mean,
we all seem to … have a want;
so that everyone around me will know
what’s in my head,
what I’m imagining,
Thinking about this.
For there is little else to suggest,
what is the fair nature of her season,
when an urgency to respond, let energy overcome
is all that seems necessary in a day.
Glance toward the beauty of woman,
she is that provocateur, a natural sense
of human nature on display,
yet, her inner peace ought be a certainty.
Indeed, the summer air does so trigger
an elegance in nature, in primal response,
yet so is the wonder of our soul
drawn to fulfill each moment we despair.
While walking alone today, a sunlit stage,
I do imagine her, in simple luxury,
the key to sweet solace her unspoken
elegance be my charge to rest my heart upon.
I wonder if the essence of silence be meant to steer
The mind to find replacement with a lonely tear
For while the imagination compel anxiety and fear,
One might slow recognize such is passion austere.
While she is the center attraction to my contentment
I wander through measures of memory silent lament.
She is the soul, hers is the ailment I wish to compliment
With swift memory, a certain sweet solace implement.
I did once know her to hold me with impressive demand
The sort a man might forever search in vain a land
Whereby woman becomes the love of outstretched hand.
Yet while the days pass slow, I remain in a fashion
That man that once imagined this only a provision
Toward her elegance, a certainty in eternal passion.