Desert Rose Sting (remix)
Yesterday, She laughed it off
Said it was a butt call
No realizing
That when her butt calls
You answer
So fast
So quick
The simmering
Reached a boil
Peeking
Popping
Over the lid
She is more
Glory
Than she will ever know
To feel the curve
To glide along
Her form
So precious
Strong
Svelt
Wating
Longing
Calling
For your caress
Fingers grace
Draw along her supple
Firm
One hand glides
Guides
Towards her inner thigh
The other caresses her stomach
Skin
So hot
So warm
So welcoming
Touches rise
Toward
The center of her heat
So fierce
Or the supple bend
Of her glory
Rising
Desperate to feel
My touch
My desire
The arch
The lean
Back
To me
Into me
Passion drips from her lips
So sweet
I feel her burn
So strong
I long to be consumed
In her
With her
If only
For a moment
To be consumed
Monday, November 25, 2019
Tuesday, November 5, 2019
Ode to joy
Ode to joy
Beauty encapsulated. Part of an orchestra. The climax. Written by a man so deaf... but so genius. Concocting only from memory that which he wished to display. Somewhere in between... he created majesty. Love for brothers, kindred separated by war. A war based on nothing that could divide the union.
I saw her at the traffic light you know. Her face golden and alight in a sun transitioning from its overhead to the radiant orange of its descending. She had cut it short... or at least shorter. Now it clung to her shoulders. A sign, if anything, of limited freedom. So limited. But one must take it parcel by parcel if that is all that is allowed. I had been her friend. Friendship has a way of keeping one eye open. But, I had been her lover. So blind. So desperate. She had given me a reason, she had given me value. She gave me joy. But sadly, as her friend, I saw all.
I loved her.
And sometimes... she loved me.
So it goes.
She at least finally registered her marriage Stateside you know. That means something. I guess. Sometimes she forgets that a friend loves you in spite of who you are.
In the end, I found the right words and I kept them simple. Thank you for being my friend. Of course she ripped the card I wrote this on in half. Thanks.
So it goes.
So it ever goes.
Regardless, blessings to you. My beautiful one, separated by a war of your own creation.
Ode to joy my sweet. Ode to joy.
Beauty encapsulated. Part of an orchestra. The climax. Written by a man so deaf... but so genius. Concocting only from memory that which he wished to display. Somewhere in between... he created majesty. Love for brothers, kindred separated by war. A war based on nothing that could divide the union.
I saw her at the traffic light you know. Her face golden and alight in a sun transitioning from its overhead to the radiant orange of its descending. She had cut it short... or at least shorter. Now it clung to her shoulders. A sign, if anything, of limited freedom. So limited. But one must take it parcel by parcel if that is all that is allowed. I had been her friend. Friendship has a way of keeping one eye open. But, I had been her lover. So blind. So desperate. She had given me a reason, she had given me value. She gave me joy. But sadly, as her friend, I saw all.
I loved her.
And sometimes... she loved me.
So it goes.
She at least finally registered her marriage Stateside you know. That means something. I guess. Sometimes she forgets that a friend loves you in spite of who you are.
In the end, I found the right words and I kept them simple. Thank you for being my friend. Of course she ripped the card I wrote this on in half. Thanks.
So it goes.
So it ever goes.
Regardless, blessings to you. My beautiful one, separated by a war of your own creation.
Ode to joy my sweet. Ode to joy.
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