What You Are

I hope that you, gentle reader, have a great sex life. I really do.

Additionally, I wish for you a fulfilling emotional life.

Not only that, it is my most sincere hope that each of you enjoy these two of life's wonders in the company of the same person.

It is infinitely more than doubled, vastly more than merely magnified, it is exponentially exploded, like expanding foam it fills every nook and crevice, and it tastes like cinnamon-honey biscuits.

It is far superior to the alternatives, by every measure.

A wise man once told me that Love is like a fart. (I know, now you are wondering why I didn't lead with that.) Love is like a fart. If you have to force it, it is probably crap. Makes sense to me.

That once in a lifetime connection with another human. It has fueled a hundred million poems, including this one.


I want to dream your thoughts alive,

give them breath and watch them move.

I am a ghost that haunts your skin

tracing your nipples with my palms

feeling them wake from slumber,

stretching for life, screaming with joy.

I want to make love, gently, with tenderness

and languid melding of me into you.

I want to fuck, turgid as a beast,

as demanding of you as my hunger is of me.

I want to be still, quiet, torpid and sated,

warming myself with your reflected sunlight.

For you are more than my love, my desire,

you are that soft, small moment just before a kiss,

you are the strokes of letters filling my blank page,

words surrounding thought, surrounding emotion,

the beat and pulse of my life-force,

the quintessence that makes me into me.

Our life together, fraught with both sorrow and joy,

embroidered by the blood and sweat of our desires

is so much more than one day fading into the next,

it is an origami swan, unfolding over and over,

revealing airy castles in the clouds,

built on foundations of promise and hope.

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