Fingertips racing across bare skin, signals repulsing to your brain. Eyes lock onto yours; pupils dilated. Free falling backwards on the bed. Wrapped in silk sheets our bodies becoming one.

I felt him between my thighs and my heart sang songs my mind didn't even know it knew.
Warm and honeyed thoughts fill me until I am full and I am ready to concede defeat and open myself for his occupation.

But doesn't it always?
The body delights in new and welcome sensations and the head creates them.
I could easily dismiss it all as a ballet of chemical reactions and well placed hands, profoundly meaning

"Nothing".

Because everyone knows when the heat dies down, and the temperature drops, when the passion has waned like the moon, and the tide falls, only the bare bones of you are left and there are only calcium pillars to protect the flame.

Because everyone who has loved, even as a passing thought, has been left in the wake of warring bodies to observe the aftermath.
Was the tenderness making way for lust?
Did every kiss have a drop of hard truth imbued that I missed?
Were his hands caressing shallow intentions into my sensitive skin?
Did I miss the message?
Or were my eyes too open in awe, that they had closed on the casual way his hands and lips met my own?

"And what had all this been for?" Is the question that dances on the outskirts of my mind, while the meeting of my thighs still burned, and my heart had descended into free fall.

Satisfaction? Fear? Gratification? Doubt?

Love?

The worst feeling, of course, not being betrayal, confusion, shame, or loss, but plainly, uncertainty.

Nothing hurts the heart worse than not knowing.

It's that half smile of yours
the one that you make
when you're making me moan
and you're enjoying yourself
simply by making me enjoy you.
Your eyes
so concentrated
but so calm
and they look at me
like they're reading my mind
like everything I'm thinking
is written in my eyes.
Your hands move over me
like they're retracing a familiar place
like they've been there many times before
but still have so much more to explore.
You know me too well
and not at all.
You're comfortable
and amazed
all at the same time.
You love me the most
when we're all alone.


*s.mndi

It is 7.30 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together like days of the week, normalcy perspiring in the air behind us.
It is 7.31 and I am still thinking about your cheekbones, collarbones, hipbones. I am still thinking about your bones. You haven't returned my phone calls in a week.
It is 7.32 and I am still thinking about forest fires.
It is 7.33 and I am still thinking about clocks ticking and how it's kind of funny how we are always counting the days we have left, instead of the days we have.
It is 7.34 and I am still thinking about how my apologies never really cut it.
It is 7.35 and I am sorry.
It is 7.36 and I wonder how hard it is to tie a noose.
It is 7.37 and I am still thinking about the normal length of a pause when you're telling someone you love them, too.
It is 7.38 and I love you, too.
It is 7.39 and I am still trying not to think about how loud the doorbell echoes in the entrance hall now.
It is 7.40 and I am still thinking about the absence of stairways.
It is 7.41 and I am still thinking about hunger pains and alleyways and the warmth of your hand on my spine.
It is 7.42 and there are some things you can't say to other people but holy ****, I miss you.
It is 7.43 and I'm sorry again.
It is 7.44 and I am still thinking about short hands on clocks.
It is 7.45 and I am still imagining footfalls landing heavy on the carpet outside my bedroom and trying not to hope they're yours.
It is 7.46 and I hope they're yours.
It is 7.47 and I am still thinking about the glass in my ribcage digging in harder than your fingernails ever could.
It is 7.48 and I am still thinking about the way our hands slotted together.
It is 7.49 and I'm sorry again.

If it doesn't set your insides on fire, is it really love?

I loved you once.....I think,
when the stars were ours 
and the wild in me yearned for the calm in you.

I was naivety looking for movie love amongst preened egos.
Searching, desperate to believe the
"you complete me" ******* consumed by numbed masses.

I stood in white silk at Gods altar,
Satan played the march with pride
as the choir abandoned all hope of hallelujah's.
While others dried tears in cheap motel rooms.

We exist now only in other realms
and never for eachother.
Mine a fortress of  bitter ink and paper
white as the inner thighs of the strangers you seek.
Yours an alcohol daze.

I like it that way, apathy mine to keep, distant guilt yours to cherish.
Wedded bliss staged and scripted,
sweet love squandered.

We wear our masks so well