The many ways he is legal.,Legit and lit..
With 3 A.M to finish it!
He ever so slightly gives..
Her a passions mind hickey.
F.ck..up.. savory
Like shivering kisses mind hiccups.
unspoken...................................attention given.
Make's her shiver he's a mental ******* giver..
Make's her mind moist and inquisitive.
At the sign of any confusion.
It's his  penetrative foreplay.
Its the lyrics used to seductively play.
Tools He uses..their selective differences.
Just before 3 a.m.
She floats adrift softly melting H.i.m.
Talking  everything  comprehensively through.
  Rocks her mindful  emotions.
Mind Fkin sweet potions.
non-trivial notions.
Following every word she's relaying.
All before the 3 a.m. relating.
By day he's catering appetizers of verbal compliments.
Sharing of the days events.
when they are away from one another.
They are texting each other.
By evening.........
his texting feels like gentle
                                                                ­    whispering!
Making His next text something she's craving.
Neva leaving her guessing what He is doing.
Neva askin her wyd?
                                             Mental interactions are tender touchings.
                              Mind Fkin..   A tender kind of existing.
                                                       ­    As they both be falling.
By the time its 3 a.m.
Oceans colliding.. erupting.. exploding. mental explosion.
3 a.m. dammn she's already had many ******* heightened chills.
Body follows every moment. No hesitations so receptive.
They are such Intellectual souls..
The body is prepped it always follows.
3 a.m Anything Goes.
By 7 a.m exhaustion so good sets in.
Physical resting  so sweet.. yet mentally he's ready with a grin.
Just to start a new day all over with her again.
by selinasharday 4-2018...H.I.M (he is mine)

When singing songs they are a chorus
of me and my shadows together opening
     our mouths (kisses at a distance
     some touchings of the self: love). When bees
buzz by the way that they do I imagine they
buzz by via their own tunes and not the wind:
     which happens to be around their wings. To sing
is something so simple and selfish and sweet
and right—wouldn't you like to know? —and when
you do it everything becomes yourself like a shiver.
     When I am with you: myself: the world
     is so much with us while really it is not,
but to sing it is good and is right and is sweet and is selfish so simple.

you make fun
of my poem about sunlight
shining through your hair
the poem about how our hands
are created to fit perfectly
with the others

i understand
why you doesn't understand
but listen:

my love for you
can not be counted in touchings
or flowers or blushing
it will not be seen og heard
in the curve of my smile
or in the rhythm of my heart

mostly
you will only see it in my words
that become hundreds of poems
about how your eyes
become another colour
as your mood changes
and about how you laughter
fells like kisses across my cheekbone

about how
you are my sun and my moon
and all the starts and galaxies
caught in 179 centimers
if kindness

my love for you
can be seen
in the way my hands cramps
after i've written your name
all over the toilet door

it is seen
in the filled trashcan
with crumpled pieces of paper
because you don't deserve misspellings
or wrong  punctuation
you don't even deserve
poorly written poems

you deserve real words
and a mouth
whom dares to speak int he daylight
instead of writing
on the lowest point of your back

and that is why
i smile and laugh
and reach out
for the paper in your hands
whispering april fools
and go home to the burn
my collection of poems
about your hair
and the sun shining through

I have forgotten all our days,
All words which you wrote to me.

Will you say that it is a mistake now?

The only thought of you had make me cry,
Now I dont know for what I need regret.
I needed to breathe, but you broke me.
How can I forgive you my death
How can I...

Now you're so bad, I can't even remember your smile.
Was you only one who loved me? (say yes)
Now you're so bad, I can't even remember your touchings to me.
Why I wanna see you cry? please, tell me, tell me...

All of that promises of infinity
We wanted it so much.
But why I don't cry now?
Maybe if our last meeting wasn't so vagueness,
Maybe then I would be sad

Please, take my hand
and
never leave.

Was you only one who loved me?

dream-bones stay long after
he has woken up:
bright, lightweight and silvery.

fused together by memories
and the sleepy recollections of them.
hips joined to ex-lovers and their feathery touchings.

these hollow bones can fly
not on wings, on the rush of nostalgia
high, before a fall.

We are from the East, where the desert grows in our heart as flowers and the eagles live in our minds like the canaries. We are not primitive as you think, but I think we don’t know how to play. Yes, our wells aren’t pink but at least they can hug our beautiful fish, and our children don’t know how to kiss but at least they have high kites. Yes, our Arabian scarf is so tall because our ancestors knew that we had fragile hearts, and we cry easily. You shouldn’t think that we are so sensitive or overpassionate but in fact our souls have made from chants and our ordinary speech is poetry. In fact, we are the sons of poetry, and our internal is watery like the watermelon, but in spite the pink water we have melodic sweet and when you open our hearts you will see the lyric rivers and fairies. Yes, we are brown, and our farmery hands are coarse but these hands have smooth, firing and magic touchings and our forefathers knew that we are exceptionally infatuated with beauty so they have colored us brown and not white. Here, on our Arabian skin you may see the impressions of our old lightening candles and the scratches of the long years of the hard hope. It will be so nice if you are an Arabian man, because all the melodic birds will find their ways to your stormy trees and all the farms will emerge from your deserted hand. We are from here, the stormy lands where the brook can’t be dry and the streets’ eyes are shy and attractive. It will be nice to be an Arabian man where your mouth is hidden by a grey veil, and your voice is so marginal. This world will know you very will and the pictures of your camels will appear daily in the magazines but in a silent manner and without opinion. Yes, it is very nice to be an Arabic man, because all what you can do is watching and all what your women know is silence.

Older ******

Love life can smoulder still
When you get older, till
The gasp and sigh die out,
Expiring total.

Where tenderness lives
Carnal knowledge survives.
Where love and affection survive,
A good love life will thrive.

The union of two
That is moving and true
Has a life of its own,
Not on loan but a power of staying,
Of carrying on.
Tenderness leaves out the hinder of ending.

While there are pauses and fadings away,
Touchings and strokings are blessings
That not only grow and develop, but stay
Till the ecstasy in its finality must die away.

Older ****** 10.1.2020 Circling Round Eros II; Circling Round Experience; Arlene Nover Corwin