open me–in this thy woken self;
please me be, within thy cloven helth.
loose thy lock:
o' woven skin and flock of grass,
where Spring hath root
and worm has pass.
be this blithe o' bonny bell
that peels in darkness a golden tell;
for thee, for thou, my hands are made,
to tend thy soul
, and flowing glade.
"Well I suppose I realized at a certain point how important physical affection is for me. Touching and being touched is immensely satisfying and reassuring to me. I only ever really feel alive when I'm near someone–kissing them, smelling them, the heat of their skin soaking my skin. It's the only thing I really want. It's the only reason I'm still alive.
For that moment. That perfect moment when someone opens themselves to me in that way. That first parting of their lips, the taste of their saliva. The taste of their neck. The feeling of their wrists in my hands. That openness, that vulnerability and surrender. Saying without saying, 'touch me, love me, fuck me–I'm yours, I'm yours, I'm yours.'"
I will return again in you. In these
hands of night, made lean and
gleaming. I will move within you and
my body shall be as light. I will turn
my face into your cool fingers and I
will love them.
(I will make my body in your body.
"I will always love you."
she tastes like something
and red between the legs,
her mouth makes lips
and i between them
over the cup and hem
hot within bleeding;
my mouth drinks her
and mouth, my
fingers drown inside
her; i kiss over fumbling
and she tastes
(and i taste)
inside our mouth: