I dreamt in-depth of her depths, her breasts, the sweet and sensuous words of her breath, the intimacy of me and the response of her flesh, my love embracing her in exquisite caress, kissing her passionately with tears of joy as she dreamed in midnight rest. It was in black silk that she was dressed, covering skin so soft that she felt like ethereal satin that was everlasting. I was overwhelmed with unbridled passion, uttering words of love that flowed from me transcendentally. In that moment, she became my wife and my life. I awoke at half past midnight.
Category: Poetry
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Tender kisses, slow descent;
eyes overflow in joyous midnight.
Feminine glow is exquisitely
displayed through open window
under entrancing moonlight.
Glistening skin is so beautifully
contrasted against satin white.
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The sweetness of her was like blackberry brandy mixed with lemonade, freshly crushed blackberries, simple syrup infused with rosemary, and whiskey in the summer poured over ice boulders. The process of intoxication were her lascivious whispers right before every passionate release, over and over. There was always pleasure in pleasing her, but the epitome of intimacy was pressing upon her the fire of my fervor. There was a perfect balance of tasting her while intermittently enticing her with sensual whispers. I would keep going, waiting for an explosion of shudders. I explored deep waters, wanting to be shipwrecked and immersed in the erotic intricacies of all of her. I wanted to be lost, navigating my way to the depths of her most secret pleasures. The scent of her was gardenias and freshly cut roses after a spring shower in Colombia. The cup of her was the most heightened concupiscent erotica. I drank of her rapture, wanting more and more of her.
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O, you precious woman of elegance and beauty, I love you deeply, and I kiss you now in your eternal rest, wishing you a peaceful journey.
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See me in misery. See me in ecstasy. See me in naked vulnerability. See me in debilitating anxiety. See the progression of trauma that scarred my psyche. See me see the divinity in intimacy. See me ending communication with certain family abruptly. See me screaming loudly under dark skies holding a crucifix tightly in death’s valley. See and hear me attempt to explain my mind’s complexities. See the discovery of my Precognitive Empath abilities. See my passion for deep transcendent sensuality. See me weep as I read notes on the back of sentimental photographs silently. See the evolution of my appreciation for women and femininity. I am hopeful yet disconsolate; see my duality. Hear me angrily tell my mind’s distressing ruminations to shut the fuck up repeatedly as if I’m disconnected from my own body. Close your eyes tearfully, and briefly be the embodiment of my agony.
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It has been nine summers since she has been gone; still, her widower cries for her. She was the sunrise of many summers. The glorious bloom of spring flowers. Her kisses were a comfort in the late hours. Beauty and serenity flowed in the narrative of her whispers. She was an angelic warmth in the winter. Love moved like a river within her. Her physical beauty matched the essence of her ethereal nature. In the room she slept he aura still lingers. The one that she immensely loved still wears the symbol of his love for her on his finger. He holds the frame that holds her last picture, his soul reaching for her, he lovingly whispers, Lucia.
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The eyes close, and the tears flow, and the winds blow, and the color of scarlet rapidly drips on snow, and words are spoken that no one will ever know. A diary heavy with immense sorrow is slowly let go, and the coldness reveals its bitterness as if trying to freeze the moment in the bosom of winter’s secrets. Winter blankets the remnants with snow’s heaviness encapsulating tears, sorrow, affliction, love, beauty, and written sentiments that are endless. Scarlet infuses it with its loudness interrupting the frozen white silence. Towering trees stripped of the leaves of their branches sway in strong winter winds as a solemn acknowledgement of what they witnessed. So heavy is the sorrow of life — the pain, the torment, the agony, the indifference. The winds become calm — snow gently falls on the beloved one who sleeps in the cradle of winter’s balm. Scarlet expands as far as it will go, soaking the pages that document the times and places of the depths of sorrow.
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Stillness settles; the weeping soul finds solace. Release comes; rivers of sorrow overflow, forming streams of emotions that only weeping angels know. The weary spirit finds rest in a place where hyacinth and lavender winds blow. Mysteries are revealed. The last loving whispers of infinite souls are unsealed. Aura is replenished in meditative essence. In a quiet room a powerful rebirth takes place with only the walls to bear witness. What is written is akin to divine poet laureates collaborating to diligently craft every sentence. In the stillness, the divine feminine begins again in beautiful nakedness. To truly love her, is to embrace her with a pure heart and dry her tears with a thousand passionate kisses.
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The comfort of a woman, affectionate, calming, and feminine is healing to the soul that is hurting. Sometimes tears run in the moment that release is found. To be in her embrace as the warmth of her hands caress one’s face is to know the unrestrained expressions of her love. To be in her presence and to share in the balm of her essence is to discover her angelic existence. Even the fragrance of her freshly conditioned hair brings a tranquility that leads to ecstasy. Her whispers are endless lines of sentimental poetry. The beautiful intricacy of her intimacy is a transcendent lesson in romantic history. Her very existence is the epitome of a divine mystery. Emotions of pure love overflow when she whispers, Kiss me.
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We wept with our mothers when our fathers left us. Comforting us, they held us tightly, tearfully whispering how much they loved us. We wept and slept, arising to the fact that all we had was us. Wiping the tears from her eyes, I said solemnly, Mom, please don’t cry. She would cook, stare and press her hair with rolling tears. Fuck the coward who caused us to go through the hard years. Fuck his life. Fuck his wife. Fuck his days and his nights. A rose for my mother and all others who suffered. I am strengthened in my pain and nights of endless rain. We didn’t necessarily want stepfathers. We wanted our mothers to find new love and to live again, in the love and security of faithful and honorable men. I will recite a loving poem and leave a beautiful rose for them.
Intimate Compositions 