"I just want to have ***", you said.
An unexpected non-sequitur.
We had been sipping tea or coffee or something.
We had been reminiscing about the old street,
Back when none of us were single.
"yeah, I miss it, too", I said.

"No.  I mean right now", you corrected.
As I turned to see your face, it betrayed little.
Impassive but alert.  Warm but not intimate.  No passion.
I was willing, but remember: this never happened to me.
Something seemed wrong about it,
But was there any harm?

I asked if I could think about it.
You thought about it, too, as we watched a movie.
Halfway through some Ridley Scott epic, we held each other.
We touch-explored and memory only tells me this is true:
With no further reason beyond the will to be,
I soon lay naked there with you.  
It wasn't love but, then again,
This never happened.
Awkward, at first, we found our place,
Our touch and pull, our rhythm and pace.
"no kissing", you admonished, speaking only that.

Though I rest spent and full inside you,
That was your concern.
Too personal.
Too intimate.

We held each other for a while,  you left within the hour,
Saying, "this never happened", and my only thought,
My only answer to you,
Was a solemn confirmation,
That nothing could be more true.

1 am
Lonely,
unfriendly night.
Dark skies,
dejected sighs.
Wine sips,
thirsty lips.
Messy hair,
(silent stares).

-cs

I'm disgusted by the rapists that are my blood,
the thieves of smiles and of happiness,
and on my family name they leave mud,
taking away any remnants of innocence.
How could you abuse your own genetics?
Yes you created her, but you do not own her.
You cannot trick her for your own sick benefit.
If you don't want to help her just to help her,
then you should not be there at all;
you should not be forcing yourself sexually
to torture her mind and make her fall
into a dark place she can't exit, really.
My instinct is to protect and create justice,
but I am forced to keep silent this family shame,
just lend an ear, so, he'll never get busted;
I am so angry that I feel like I'm aflame.
A sticky situation, one that makes me sick
and makes me want to scream and kick.
I hope it gets sorted soon, or there will be a war,
because she is more than worth starting it for.

Pen and paper,
meet again,
in sweet love,
do they blend.
***** words of
dreamer's desires,
forming a book,
for cupid's admirers.
Pale thin skin,
covers
with ink's loving,
as the writer's heart
keeps on beating.
Even though this love
may stop at some time,
stories will always be,
a writer's valentine.