Posts Tagged ‘sex’

senses #5 – sight

15/04/2017

when the night heats up
in the city,
the water from days,
from puddles,
from cups,
from the air
evaporates
and sticks to the bodies,
a condensed humidity,
mixed
to a salty sweat
that never goes away.

it makes bodies shine
under neon lights
of  damp alleys
and stuffy dance clubs;
it’s so pretty.

it’s in a heat wave
that cuts through my body
and lights up my nerves
like thunder,
that my skin tingles,
inside out,
and everything
flares up:

goosebumps are a photo
of desire
when my thighs
touches your thighs
as we cross each other’s steps
in the ballroom,
my pupils dilate
as a chopped-up picture of you
flashes, on and off,
under stroboscopic lights,
and fingers glide
through arms
in barely-there touches.

senses #4 – taste

14/04/2017

don’t tell me what I like
or dislike.

it’s my tongue:
i’ll put it
wherever I want.

sweet nothings

18/07/2016

I dreamt of you
in both worlds:

there,
in that brief bubble
of preserved past,
(that scene)
when my fingers ghosted
over the flimsy cotton
of your plaid shirt
and all we could hear
was the whispering of the wind.

and here,
where distance
is all that’s left of us.

scorpio

15/07/2016

I wanna squeeze you,
trap your ribcage, your chest,
between my legs,
choke your delicate neck
in my hands
until you bruise like a peach
just so I can see
(you! breathless! and)
whole constellations
underneath your skin.

dreamin’

04/07/2016

I am not one for make-up
but I’d love
to put some lipstick on
just to paint a masterpiece
of brushes and smudges
on your thighs.

forest green eyes

11/03/2016

she’s got a shyness
that is typical of her,
a melancholy
that is an inherent vice.

but what makes her timid
also makes her deeply pretty,
specially in the after-hours
when speech is no longer coherent
(and she whispers
her idyllic poems, her dreamy spirit,
low
– so low –
directly into my ear.)

and it’s early in the morning,
when she trembles in my arms,
goosebumps all over her arching back,
that I see her guarded reticence

and all the strength
of character
that she carries
in the purple circles underneath her eyes.

if only we try a bit harder

26/10/2015

I have so much to say, I don’t even know where to start.
I don’t even know how to describe it all:
The soft touch of your lips on mine,
the gentle bites,
the first contact of our tongues,
(and the way it electrified me,
electrocuted me, really,
a sensation like I was being ripped apart by a thunderbolt),
the adrenaline that made my heart beat fast for days and days on end,
the faint grip of your hands on my hair (bringing me closer and closer and
impossibly closer),
the low giggles tumbling carelessly
(beautifully!)
out of your mouth, breaking the silence
of the earth that doesn’t move, only exists in the early hours of the morning.
I don’t know if I have words
that are sufficiently beautiful to tell anyone about
the goosebumps on my skin, arising
from the ghost-like touch of your fingers on my ribs,
or if I have enough language to craft a full, perfect sentence
about that vanilla perfume that is impossibly lodged in that warm
& sweet pulse point where your ear meets your head,
or if I have enough vocabulary
(or if enough vocabulary exists)
to tell the story of my excitement
upon feeling the shivers of your skin,
the humming of your blood,
the softness of your warm body underneath the covers,
the shortness of your breath,
and the dampness
of sweat behind your knees and on those tiny hairs on the nape of your neck.
(And other places I can only imagine and hope).
I don’t know if I have enough age
or enough experience
to have seen enough things
to craft metaphors good enough
to compare your smile in the pitch-black
darkness, illuminated only by a sliver of light.
(Like a saving lighthouse that beam was,
only there to guide me
to the perfect point to anchor my kisses).
I just don’t know what to say.
And I don’t know if I should even say anything.
I wanted to whisper it all to you, in your ear,
but I don’t know if my worship must be a secret.
(Our secret to the world, between you and me,
or a secret that I should reserve only to me).
Still, I’m shameless,
So just let me ask you once again.
Let me beg, in fact… Please,
(being the repeat offender that I am),
temptress, let me once again nest my body,
safely,
in the shelter of your collarbones.
Sweetheart, let me smash my face,
fit it seamlessly,
in the safe haven that is the dip between your shoulder blades
and abandon myself in the land of dream-full sleep;
Let me soothe your worries in the embrace of my arms,
my hand tucked neatly under your chest,
(your body, peaceful in sleep, facing the wall)
close to your heart, clutched in your own hand.
Let me map the whole expanse of your body,
every tiny freckle and blemish and scar,
from your taut toes to your closed eyelids.
Let me kiss a path on your spine while I tell you a story
in-between tiny butterfly kisses that are barely there.
Let me cut my heart once again in the sharpness of your hipbones,
and let me rub my nose on yours once again.
Let me cure your wounds by touching our foreheads
while settled sweetly between your legs,
and keep you from harm while resting the full weight of my body
on the full length of yours.
(I promise I wont crush you,
and that my breath will be fresher next time,
but only if you promise me
that you won’t leave the bed again
without a good-morning kiss
or, at least, an utterance of audible
“good bye”).

After that, we’ll see how it goes.