#romances
Your passion is fierce and fiery,
soaking my longing dry,
wrapping your flames of desire
tightly around my body.
We hold long conversation,
then you turn me to the door,
charred and spent,
all before the rise of dawn.
Feb 6
Feb 6, 2026 at 6:16 AM UTC
I miss this, I miss how we used to "love" each other. I miss the person who loved me with every inch of my body & soul. He wasn't so embarrassed, or felt how he does now.
You know, sadly everyone's opinions ruined this relationship too. Everyone has a 2 cent.
Nobody really says it, til you really experience it. You really do lose that spark, and I've tried so hard to have it back. Maybe, fought to hard to have it back.
Communicate, communicate. That's what everyone preaches. You can communicate all you want, but really? It's a lot more about listening first, listening to each other if you wanna make a difference.
You would think, "oh! It's okay, we're growing in other ways.". No, no. We're not experiencing that type of fortunate growth.
You literally go to talking, to never talking. The differences that sound louder in the dark, than the words that we speak. No more goodmornings, no more goodbyes. No more how are yous, no more laughs. No more anything, especially if he looks for others to enjoy & not you.
We sleep in the same bed, but we've never been so farther from each other.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 2:06 PM UTC
Goodbye to a part of you;
Not all, as we remain entwined.
Decided to stay friends one day,
Which cut off a choking vine.
This vine, we called it romance,
And intimate contact.
We loved parts of one another, but not enough,
And that’s okay, in fact.
I’m proud, friend, that you told me;
I thank you for your trust.
It means we can find someone who we can fully love,
And still hold each other up.
Goodbye to the part of you
That lies open just for me.
Goodbye to a future life and house;
I’ve thrown away my key.
We’ve put away our photos,
Yet treasure the memories.
What we had is over, but not gone;
We honor history, you and me.
You told me if we must ever part,
To first say goodbye.
I will, but will work to never have to,
Because you’re pretty cool, my guy.
Jan 31, 2025
Jan 31, 2025 at 8:16 PM UTC
Bittersweet song
on my radio.
Reminiscing on our story
as if conjured.
Some roads fork
and divide,
others turn to dirt
and get lost in the wilderness.
Still, there's a melody
to be found;
memories fondly held,
despite the lies.
Jul 31, 2019
Jul 31, 2019 at 12:43 PM UTC
After the earth at long last touches the sun,
furthermore, the long blast stops all of a sudden
like a heart rundown,
the world may appear to be white and calm
to something that watches it in the sky during the evening,
so something may feel little,
what's more, feel almost human agony.
Be that as it may, it won't occur once more:
the long evenings squandered alone, what's finished
in entryways oblivious by the youthful,
what's more, what could have been for a few.
Think about every one of the darlings and the companions!
Who does not accumulate his segment of them
to himself. in any event in his brain?
*** facilitated through everybody,
notwithstanding while slipping into death
as into a dearest's skin,
what's more, prying out again to discover
the body drooped, muscles slack.
furthermore, bones started their swing to tidy.
At that point nobody minds when one darling
holds another, similar to an emptied sack.
Be that as it may, reality enters toward the finish of life.
It enters like oxygen into each cell
also, the franticness it bolsters there in a few
is just a clear allegory
for something since a long time ago consumed to nothing,
like a star.
How would you get under your want?
How would you peel away each want
like unwieldy garments, each one in turn,
until what's underneath is known?
We knew private parts as little things
what's more, we were embarrassed they drove us around,
regardless of the possibility that the slope where we'd rests
was a similar slope the universe unfurled upon
throughout the night, as we watched the stars,
at the point when for once our breathing appeared to mix.
Each time, from that sweet weight
of hands, or the colossal alleviation of the mouth,
a man can be driven out of himself
Is it safe to say that it isn't forlorn in the body?
The myth says we overflow in regards to as spirits
until there's a body made to take us,
what's more, just substance is made by ***
That is the reason we enter *** so tirelessly,
around the joy that comes
when we push down sufficiently far
to bump the soul ascending to discharge,
furthermore, the joy is joy of unadulterated soul,
for a minute all together once more.
So *** returns us to starting, and we groan.
Unadulterated *** ends up plainly particular and cement
in a touch of ***** or incline of midsection:
it flies through itself like light, it sails
on not at all like a wing, when somebody's there
to be touched, when there's not all that much.
So the genuine is touched in ***
like a ***** through material: the genuine
rising stout and genuine, the psyche
dashing about it like a tongue.
This is the place I needed to be all along:
up on the planet, in contact with myself. . .
*** undetectable priestess of a decent God,
I think without you I may very well turn off.
I know there's no keeping you close,
as you flick by underneath a sentence
on a prepare, or change the last idea
of an old cloister adherent, or pull back for one minute alone.
Who guides you or secures you!
I'd surrender the rest to **** your dull lips.
I'd surrender the rest to settle you correct
in the universe, at the most out of control edge
where there's no such thing as shape.
What a disgrace I am, if contacting the ideal individual
in a diminish room, *** holds itself separated
from us like a holy messenger in a the great beyond,
also, with the thoughts nobody has even imagined,
it cries its odd music for unadulterated personality.
After there's nothing,
after the enormous explode of everything,
what voice from what throat
will reveal to me my identity? Every throat
on which I would have discreetly set my lips
will be tore like a modest sleeve
or, on the other hand blown separated like the ceased up
barrel of a weapon. What was inside them
all the time I needed dependably
to rest my mouth upon?
I thought generally everything
stuck dartlike in the half-arch of my mind,
also, hung there like phony stars in a planetarium.
It's actual that things there changed into names,
that even my loved ones were a bundle of signs,
so I felt frequently alone.
This is an approach to remain alive and nothing to wail over.
We know the first occasion when we broaden an arm:
the body achieves so far for so long.
We develop and love to develop, at that point stop, at that point rests.
I needed to manage inside me this delicate result.
I needed to know whether it got *** going:
does it show up definitely in touch and talk?
does it spill from the psyche, as warmth from the skin?
I needed my touching insightful, similar to a wonderful melody.
Oct 21, 2017
Oct 21, 2017 at 8:43 AM UTC
What had you said, oh first made woman?
First born woman of my flesh?
What hallowed words had you uttered
When you seperated my heart from love?
Or from what I felt was really my due?
For I was naught but dust to you
Oct 27, 2015
Oct 27, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
Little coffee spills,
on your desk
with my lipstick
on your mug,
and my hair
on your pillow.
Marking the places
I have been,
so you won't forget
how I taste.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 2:03 AM UTC
We're terrible at goodbyes.
It's probably what we're worst at
in our relationship.
We suddenly turn into one of those
mushy couples everyone gags around,
unable to part each other's company,
constantly returning for "just one more."
Goodbyes are the worst,
and we **** at them.
Yet every time you leave me,
I am left with the hugest grin
on my face, unable to contain myself
because someone such as you
loves me so dearly
that it's a struggle
to part ways.
So although I know
I'll miss you terribly,
and we quite simply **** at goodbyes,
I'm always left behind
in the best of moods,
filled to the brim
with my love for you.
Jul 16, 2014
Jul 16, 2014 at 11:24 PM UTC
Oakes-photo, hypocrisy and flagrant mirky plateau. Brimming celestial warrants overcrowding public housing systems. North-South lights, sell costly iPhone Apps; and then there are Social Societies of non-verbal delight. Password protected non-profitable and over-costly educations of no reward or biblical synonyms. Catastrophizing hash-tag dot.com. Weary party going poster children with glowing anemone guts, fruity looped cantlings, ravenous scattered supper clubbed coughing up ******* on their strange and central affairs unit. Overcome the candisation and sugary affairs of any of the ***** and pops that erstwhile matter less and less. We are speaking of nomenclatures that don't arise. Promises and by which confession aloof romanticizes every Tom dicking Mary that carries the theory of sustainable energy, prussian blue, and irregular browsing.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:46 AM UTC
Not an amulet, an off white vertebrae; bone.
Brass wire, a loop at one end.
It bends as to make sure this will fit.
A gauge that measures mesmerization,
And we both must get along, but
Not because we're not tough enough:
Most of us aren't soft right yet.
So many stiffs, folly after folly.
The whole carful of loose cadavers,
Dangling, their feet hang with wet snow
And carnage,
Not even musk deer pop up,
They've all gone. Roosting in a parabol,
With X's sprayed to their groins.
Burning pop couples
Doing it like laboratory mice. Capybaras
Hiss, my own burnt blood is also
Flocculating.
Turn the cup upside down and
See the fire's balmy lachrymal opaque
Moss while it does not drip.
This is the story of man you asked me about;
Devoid of a muzzle, fur onto his chest; coarse
Hair in a garland.
It is the God of a tool that buzzes into the night.
A plateau for this most sensible study.
We feel another coming.
And when you awoke, your larval tongue
My eye mush, a song of verse and melancholy.
This half list of greatness, a tally we both wish to see.
Apr 26, 2014
Apr 26, 2014 at 4:38 AM UTC