I wrote you a story, a sonnet, and a symphony the other day,
but I forgot them.
I meant to give them to you,
but one look in your eyes, and words failed me.
I couldn't remember what I had written,
nor did it matter.
I knew that each word, each note, I had written while not in your presence
couldn't suffice.
I hadn't been able to embody every feeling, every sensation,
that I am taught over and over again each time I see you.
I had thought my story, my sonnet, and my symphony would do a fair job,
but, without your physical, visual, and verbal influence,
my words and melodies could not reach the magnitude I had hoped.
My imagination, and, similarly, my memories,
do you no justice.
I wrote you a story, a sonnet, and a symphony the other day,
but upon seeing you, I forgot them, so
I wrote you this instead,
to describe how difficult it is to be away from you.

His voice in my ear,
quivering in anticipation and nerves.
His calm, firm fingers wrap
around each of my wrists in turn,
forming vice-like grips.
The feeling behind his actions
a salacious mix of masked innocence and bold confidence.

My spine, a tall grass frond
shivering in combative winds.
My skin
a den of a cabin in the mountains,
both welcoming and warm,
a beacon of pleasure.

He knows what I desire,
as I am equally aware that he wants to force it upon me.

We say that flesh has something to boast about,
and, to him who believes in the blessedness of sin,
it is the only thing to boast about
For the promise of smooth, snowy plains,
flowing and carrying and rising into hills,
and falling gently into sloping valleys,
As a form of the Human appearance,
is a far greater fate than any other to be known.
The shallow pleasures of our lives
seem, to me, the one things that make it bearable.
And not only pleasures in the form of flesh,
but in the form of every small bit of momentary
gladness we force upon ourselves.