With every beautiful whisper, I turn around to see if it’s her. With every vivid dream, with tears I reach for her. With every light breeze, I remember the floral savor of her aroma. With every strand of her long dark hair left on white pillows, there is a portion of her angelic aura. With every tear that falls, there are remnants of her. With every utterance of her name, I caress every letter. With every beat of my heart, she is closer. With every precious memory, I embrace her tighter. With every thought I transcribe to paper, she is my constant fire. With the depths of my longing, she is my never-ending desire.
Category: Poetry
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In the interim, I look at the man in the mirror and speak to him; he whispers of lost love and unceasing suffering. He speaks of the pain that never ends. He talks about who is more precious than even the most rare diamonds and implores me to never betray the heart of a woman. Maybe I’ll see him again, but until then, I will internalize his sayings in deep contemplation. Before he left, he told me to remember him and he weeps at every inference of the tears that rolled down the face of his beautiful woman after her heart was broken. It was the way she looked at him with tears in her eyes, that so touched him. Through wails of regret, he admitted to me in secrecy that of her love, he is no longer worthy and that he sincerely wants her heart to heal and he desperately wants her to be happy; his whispers are that of a contrite man shattered and decimated in totality from his past iniquities. I try to comfort him with references of beautiful memories, but still, he cries unceasingly. He speaks softly when he speaks of her, reaching as if she is still there; and still, he weeps unceasingly. Through loving whispers, he weeps unceasingly.
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The space between the anticipation of a passionate kiss creates its own energy that brings healing with the touch of loving lips. The sun shines on them as if acknowledging that true love has given birth again. They are committed to each other until the end. They are lovers. They are friends. The beauty of her feminine aura only the heavenly hosts could describe. She is a mortal, born of a miracle with an ethereal nature that abides. With every kiss they feel even more alive. Her lips are the taste of raw honey and the softness of them, like ten thousand rose petals covering freshly cut fescue in the fall. She brings him a nurturing only a woman could bring. Her breath, the sweet savor of freshly cut mint leaves in lemongrass tea sweetened with raw brown sugar. Her hair, the winding of a mighty river. The contours of her neck are subtly sexy; the curvature of her breasts embody the womanhood of her feminine beauty. Her lover places his hands upon her with gentle lovingness, expressing his feelings to her without words, telling her that he truly loves her without cliché sentiments or meaningless utterances that drown in the seas of unimportance. There is a sense of belonging in them that draw them close to each other. She glows more brightly than usual because unbeknownst to her, there is a life the dwells within her. With illuminated wings, and a halo of seven stars she will deliver. The agony of her labor will be temporary and she will shine even more brightly in the hours close to her maternity. They will be all connected eternally. The energy of a passionate kiss led to the creation of a new life within her, but they will never lose their sensual fire. They will never lose that beautiful anticipation right before an erotic kiss is given. With every touch they reinvent their passion again and again. They have cried together, and immense love is their constant shelter. They have held hands and walked through fire together. They have defeated the potent corrosion of uncertainty and second guessing. He abides in her and she in him. It is truly amazing, the beautiful healing that comes with passionate kissing — the way it can take away the pain and the cares of the world and place love in its proper perspective. If only one could hear the beautiful whispers that are spoken before kissing. The body is relaxed and tingling because it is a familiar euphoric feeling. Kissing leads to licking, and moaning, and erotic screams from deep penetration. They say there are eight wonders, but nothing is akin to the mystery of a woman. Nothing. There are many beautiful things in this world, but a woman’s beauty trumps all of them. To fall into her embrace is to fall into a place of love and nurturing. To touch her face, is to touch the most beautiful thing the creator ever made. To have her love, is to have something invaluable and sacred. To betray her love, is to cast a rare diamond into an ocean where it could never be found again. To think of her only in sexual terms is to be exceedingly foolish in ignoring her intellect and the beauty of her totality. For a man to not take his time and learn the pleasurable reactions of a woman’s body is to risk her dissatisfaction in eroticism and love making. To not acknowledge the length and beauty of her hair is to ignore what the creator has given to her for a covering. There is a subtle sensuality in the beauty of a woman’s feet that is missed regularly. An ankle bracelet and pedicured toes in stiletto mules can drive a man to lose himself in the pleasuring of a woman in any and everyway possible. From the sweetness of an impassioned kiss, the mouth travels lower and lower until it finds the essence of longing that is wondrous wetness — but still, it is the taste and softness of the lips. It is the taste and softness of the lips.
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We used to venture to Café Intermezzo at 3AM for New York Cheesecake and expresso. I would hold you intimately at an inside table with a lit candle or on the patio. I would kiss you and tell you that I love you with the depths of me; sometimes we would change our selection from cheesecake and expressos, to old fashioned donuts and Irish Coffee. We used to sing together in the car on our late night drives on Peachtree. I may have failed, but I tried with all my heart to give you the best of me. Out of the blue, you pop up in my memories; In my mind’s gallery, I screenshot the images of you looking at me lovingly. Still, I hold you in my heart and contemplate your beauty. I wonder who now holds you. I wonder if you are married with a family. I wonder if sometimes you think of me. I wonder if you are happy.
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I wonder who holds you. I wonder who whispers words of love to you that move your heart and cause tears of joy to flow as the sun shines on you through curtains that strong winds blow. I wonder if he gently moves strands of your long curly hair from your face before he kisses you when you are sleeping. I wonder if he holds you in his embrace when you are dreaming. I wonder if you comfort him in unending affection when the tears of sorrow are streaming. My contemplation torments me mercilessly, and I find myself wanting to be him. I wonder if he reaches for you with the depths of his soul even when you are in his presence. I wonder if he thoroughly intimately pleases you, reaching the sweet depths of your essence. I wonder if he bathes you in bath oils in a setting with candles, beautiful music, and aromatherapy. Last night, I dreamt that you were lying next to me. Does my heart burn with longing or with the insanity of uncontrolled jealousy? Why do my thoughts torment me, saying to me unceasingly that it should have been me? I look at the man in the mirror and tell him straightforwardly of his stark reality. I would rather live in desolation than in a perpetual unattainable fantasy. In my mind, I kiss her one last time and let her go peacefully — but still, she is there in every breath I breathe. I try and try again to stem my longing, but my heart finds no reprieve. Without her, I want to breathe but my heart and soul find no reprieve. From my own desires, again and again I leave, but still, there is no reprieve.
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I had tried for so long to purge your memory from me, but in my attempt, I discovered that you were not only in my memories, but you are a part of me eternally. I say that I no longer love you, loudly, but I caress your face and kiss you in the depths of my spirit quietly. There was a time I told you that I wanted you to be happy, even without me, but now, perhaps selfishly, I want your happiness to be an immersion in me. My desolation takes me to an unforgiving and dark place where the hands of the clock move extremely slowly, mercilessly prolonging my misery. Rescue me, lest I drown in the deep cold waters of despondency. My life is forfeit lest there is love in it; in my tearful plea for love, I am passionate. In my brokenness, I hold myself together from the remnants of love that I draw on entirely too much — and I fear it fades away from me daily. In agony, the soul cannot lie; the truth must be professed. In my confession, I must say, there is an emptiness and a distinct pain that is relentless. Perhaps I will call on heaven’s archangels to come down and illuminate my darkness with celestial light. At night, I walk among the trees and search for her aura in the twilight. One thousand pink long stemmed roses are the beauty and fragrance of my utterances. Love, I wait on you with tears for you to embrace me once again. The length, scent, and texture of her hair alone moved me to emotion. True intimacy expressed in sensual darkness is more precious than diamonds. I hold many emotional letters of love in my heart that are unfinished, hoping that love will find me once again, and that my desolate fate will be rewritten.
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Vicious words wound deeply through fierce lips, spoken vitriolically; without pause, long held sentiments of resentment flow from the tongue fluently — in an instant, love is retracted and utterly shattered, marking a new reality. A feeling of impending desolation creeps in, exploiting the soft underbelly of vulnerability mercilessly. Tears are shed unceasingly as tormented weeping is carried out in cold darkness silently. The heart is pierced with the dagger of sadness then ripped apart violently. The soul withers as tearful eyes gaze lifelessly. Sleep is not found ; the appetite wanes, and in heavy sorrow the body moves listlessly. Hopes of forever are shattered instantly; the utterly broken heart feels the pull of death’s gravity, and in a depressive state, the tearful broken hearted question their sanity.
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If you ever loved me at all, take the remnants of my broken heart and shattered soul and make a place for me in the vastness of your most affectionate memories, and there I will forever be, rested in your warmth — rescued from the bitter cold of the purgatory of unloved souls who were forgotten by their formers lovers and left unknown without a loving home; in ceaseless weeping they roam; at 4 AM hear them moan, wailing, hoping to be remembered again in beautiful memories of intimacy, that hearken back to sounds of ecstasy. They are revived and again come alive with every former lover’s passionate solo release that used some part of their shared memories or with every familiar place they had both frequented that stir emotions of whatever happened to her or him and the contemplation of what could have been or the sentiment of anything loving.
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I give all of myself, without regret and without fear that when I awake you may not be here. If I should lose you, let the pain in my heart be expelled through sleepless days and nights of heavy ceaseless tears — and in my mourning, let me hold you tightly once again, gently placing within the safety and secrecy of my sincere heart, the last remembered image of your beautiful face and the precious memories that we shared.
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Black silk drapes atop radiant skin,
flowing over beautiful slopes and sensual mountains;
Amazingly, she poses perfectly with
an otherworldly aura of beauty; her hair pinned.
Loose strands rest against her face as if
holding the rays of the sun in a loving embrace.
Her lips are honey; her eyes, an ethereal gaze.
Intimate Compositions 