He fed her with hands of plague,
and she embraced it with a heart
steeped in grace.
Falling sick, she wept—not from pain,
but in love.

She does not write to match
perception, nor tailor her words
to gain acceptance.

She pours out her raw essence—
Undiluted, unfiltered, never refined
for the sake of consumption.

Her feelings are primitive,
Her thoughts, inventive—
A soul born at the eclipse
of origin and dissolution,
unbound by existence,
indivisible by destruction.

Darling,
You were never—
Held by my heart,
Carried by my senses,
Flowing in my breath,
Attached to my soul,
Bound to my core;
Not even woven into
the fabric of my life force.

For you were always that
formless truth—
the silent force that held
and shaped my very source.

How woefully amusing is it
to realize some believe
possessing mere ******
assets is a treasure.

If only they realized those
are too insignificant
compared to the most luring
assets of their mind.

Realize revealing the naked parts
of their psyche is more
luscious than ******* the layers
from their bodies.

Realize uncovering the shapes
of their thoughts is
more irresistible than flaunting
the curves of their physique.

Realize there's no true pleasure in
having an ideal form that all chase,
but actual privilege lies in carrying
the invisible form with effortless grace.

It's not a dopamine boost, baby,
It's the cry of your pleasure.

It's not the quenching of lust, my dear,
It's the taste of your essence.

It's not just ecstasy, my honey,
It's pain undoing itself.

It's not a plain hug, my darling,
It's restraint freeing itself.

For you are not my reaction, my love—
you are action sensing itself.