Perpetual dark rain masks the tears of my unending pain; there is no distinction when tears fall in a storm. Incessant sorrow is the numbness of my soul. I used to crave warmth, but I have adapted to bitter cold. I am shattered over and over again; the dams of my eyes fill with the tears of my heart. I am silent and still in my weeping before the bellowing of my anguish starts. I seek understanding no more, nor do I reach for love in its purest form. Life will be what it will be. I am a castaway, shipwrecked on unmerciful seas. I did not know that I was so deeply wounded until I saw my own blood on the leaves. The tightness of the chest and shortness of breath feels like slow imminent death. There is no fucking redemption in constant torment. If hell is my portion then in hell I will walk. I do not give a fuck about societal norms or their prejudice thoughts. The decadence of their sentiments have bloated them — they are greedy pigs with foul breath at the trough. The weight of their iniquities have crush their knees; on their bellies they crawl. Still, in unending storms tears fall. To protect myself from further pain, around my heart I build an impenetrable wall. In the dystopia of my soul I am stranded, left desolate. The beauty of past intimacy seems like a lifetime away. After early morning sensuality, from work, she would call to tell me that she was still throbbing, further inciting my intimate passion. Regretfully, I never showed her the sorrowful depths of me, afraid to show the vastness of my pain. Sorrow is now synonymous with my name — my unseen tears washed away by dark eternal rain.
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If all we do is just fuck and pretend, what then shall we say to each other in the end? What tears of heartbreak will be shed? What emotional words will be softly and lovingly spoken? What remnants shall we have to hold onto that were once filled with love before they became broken? Why do we attempt to fool each other with sweet words that mean nothing? Is it not at least somewhat sadistic that we use each other for pleasure then blaspheme the name of love as if it was love that brought us together?
We share a bed and go through our regular routine, then right after, breathless together, you talk of wedding locations and rings. I purposely avoid your delusional sentiments, not subtly but overtly, and still, you continue to bring them up again. In the company of your friends you act like we’re some model couple because you want them to envy you — and ignorantly, they do. Maybe it’s our lust for each other that keep us together. Many times I’ve packed my bags to leave but always end up taking you on the sink in the bathroom or against the wall in the bedroom or on the carpet on your knees in any room. But that’s all we do; fuck, breakup, make up, pretend and argue.
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Embers from the passionate fire that rages in my heart, go forth, resurrecting love dead and long-forgotten in the depths of the desolate dark.
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Before she fucks him, she always takes of her wedding rings. She says she sincerely loves her husband, but his dysfunction does not allow him to satisfy her constant craving. Often in uncontrollable amorous throbbing, she touches herself, and she uses many different toys of her choosing; but her desire is for the sensuous feeling of the real thing. With her lover, at first, per agreement, there was just primal fucking, not intimate kissing — but as time went on, rules were broken, and her husband, she divorced him; and her lover, she fell in love with him. But her lover, he was not faithful to her, for her lover had wives, mothers and others. Some were for pleasure, some were for the money of his hire. Often after the quenching of her lustful hunger, she thinks about the husband who unconditionally loved her when she is in the shower. She misses her husband’s loving whispers and sincerely affectionate kisses. She misses the way she was held. She cries, because he rescued her from emotionally hell, took care of her wonderfully and treated her so well. But he could not satisfy her sexually — he could not bring her to ecstasy; he could not quench the fire within her. The bareness of her ring finger signifies the story of tragedy, and even after ecstasy, still, she is unhappy.
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She is a mystery cloaked in elegance and beauty — the presence of her is womanly; be loving and patient in your discovery, and in time, you will find her, a flower that caressing winds carried over raging fires and vastly deep waters, finally setting her down delicately in a hidden place of safety that could only be found by the truly worthy who sincerely love her deeply — protecting her heart forever.
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I cry, not because of regret or the woman that left, but I shed tears for love itself, for it never had a chance to grow because the soil of its young roots became infertile — dying in its infancy, it withered slowly and painfully, and though I nurtured love as a mother cradling her newborn baby, I could not save it — so I gave love one last kiss in its place of final rest and wept over my loss for weeks until the tears could flow no more from listlessness, insensibility and lack of sleep.
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Sweet grapes of your vineyard are excitedly crushed. Your wine flows effortlessly fermented in ecstasy — the taste of you intoxicates me as I drink more and more from your sensuous cup.
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The darkness offers an indescribable solace. The smoothness of her skin is the epitome of the magnificence of a woman’s softness. Soft light gently illuminates the feminine beauty and sensuousness that so many envy. They lust after her curvature but foolishly step over her true power as a natural nurturer; they could never be profound and loving enough to dig deeper to find the diamonds hidden within her. Indeed, she is a beautiful wonder yet to be discovered. She is alone with her thoughts. The contemplation of her is like a revered book constantly read, re-read and referenced by the most distinguished scholars. To kiss her is heavenly — to possess her heart is to have a gift desired ineffably . To know even just a small portion of her secrets is to know her intimately. To know the loving thoughts expressed in her eyes; to truly resonate with the pain in her cries, is to know pure love eternally.
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I sought understanding, but I found none. I sought love with many tears, but it came with conditions. I craved the healing depths of affection, but rejection was my portion. I tried to hide the sorrow in my eyes, but my attempts were futile. My existence has consisted of tribulations and many trials. I have walked in the depths of that valley were death shadowed me constantly without mercy. I have unknowingly sat in the company of those who have tried to hurt me. The blood that runs within me is that of a vindictive family. I have seen the ugliness of internal strife all of my life. I have been called upon by people that I love to choose sides. In dark quiet rooms I have incessantly cried. I lost a part of myself when my mother died. I have not exceptionally achieved, though I’ve tried. I have not distinguished myself in my own critical eyes. What is most invaluable to me is peace of mind. I breathe, but still I feel buried alive. I see, but I stumble constantly as if I am blind. I eat, but I am never satisfied. I sleep, but I’m still doggedly tired. The ecstasy of intimacy is one of the few things that makes me feel alive. I seek warmth to prevent myself from becoming utterly cold inside. I seek an ethereal transcendence, but maybe it will come in time.
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Oh, the beauty of womanhood that cannot be replicated in mere sentiment or whittled down to the objectification of envied elements. To find the secret gems of her soul, one must be immersed in her completely. She is a woman, naturally — made up of magnificent complexities and steeped in the glory of femininity. Sitting on satin sheets, she unfastens her bra and finds release. Her movements are graceful; her feminine essence, unmistakable. Her heart is beautiful. Her love, incomparable and irreplaceable. The intrinsic elegance of her presence is breathtakingly wonderful. The soothing words of her whispers are essential.
Intimate Compositions 