closepassage
Close Passage
The word unspoken, the vessel of the pause.
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I Have Dreamed of You So Much
I have dreamed of you so much that you are no longer real.
Is there still time for me to reach your breathing body, to kiss your mouth and make
your dear voice come alive again?
I have dreamed of you so much that my arms, grown used to being crossed on my
chest as I hugged your shadow, would perhaps not bend to the shape of your body.
For faced with the real form of what has haunted me and governed me for so many
days and years, I would surely become a shadow.
O scales of feeling.
I have dreamed of you so much that surely there is no more time for me to wake up.
I sleep on my feet prey to all the forms of life and love, and you, the only one who
counts for me today, I can no more touch your face and lips than touch the lips and
face of some passerby.
I have dreamed of you so much, have walked so much, talked so much, slept so much
with your phantom, that perhaps the only thing left for me is to become a phantom
among phantoms, a shadow a hundred times more shadow than the shadow the
moves and goes on moving, brightly, over the sundial of your life.
(Robert Desnos)
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Untagged
I don't want an audience.
I only want your audience. I only want your eyes on these words. I only want your ears to hear them ring when I speak their variations.
I only want your skin to feel my caress, my urgency, my touch, even when it's through your slick, nimble, and unrestrained fingers, the handle of a brush, a tube of lip gloss.
I don't want wine or liquor or acrid smoke. I want to be intoxicated by your wine-sweet kisses, the liquor of your thighs, the humid perfume of your sex.
I don't want people to find my posts. I want to seek and be sought by you; find and be found by you, again and again, until the stars burn out.
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I want to see you.
Know your voice.
Recognize you when you
first come 'round the corner.
Sense your scent when I come
into a room you've just left.
Know the lift of your heel,
the glide of your foot.
Become familiar with the way
you purse your lips
then let them part,
just the slightest bit,
when I lean in to your space
and kiss you.
I want to know the joy
of how you whisper
'more.'
- Rumi
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Tendresse
When it comes to tenderness, I find words inadequate to describe that particular affection – caring – for you.
It's better to deploy them in your service than attempt to use them in service of something as trifling as description.
Is love a feeling or an action? Are there any feelings that are actions?
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Slip
We pretend we haven’t slipped to where we are, as if closing our eyes to the stars will shut them off. When we open our eyes, they’re just that much brighter.
The night burns.
I’m awake and hard, teeth on edge, as I crave the soft resistance that I know burns like spring between your pretty, slender legs.
Typing that made me swell.
I wonder if those words got caught in your throat like something you might only be able to whisper if I was taking you right now, as you read this, my arm wrapped around you chest, your neck, pressing you to me, my other hand down the front of your panties pulled aside, rubbing you as I push into that virgin softness for the first time, stretching and opening you, feeling you tightening, feeling our bodies fit, feeling the slip of warm skin against warm skin.
I feel like I could break in the best way.
I like the word “need” when you type it. I like the sigh I can taste in your words and see in the sun on your skin. Is that same sigh beginning to glisten in the cleft of that soft resistance that I ache to sink into, that craves my entry, my completion, my heat?
Bite your lip and face me.
Open your mouth.
Come closer.
Good girl.
Tell me. Not with your words. With your body as I savor and taste you, as I explore you, as I take you, as you feel me slip into you as everything you ever wanted and more.
Tell me that way, then say it.
Or say it… and tell me that way.
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Morning
Morning gilds the kitchen walls with sunlight and trembling shadows from the curtains that filter the dawn into long rays, alive with dust and spring.
As it does on every morning, the room smells like coffee and cinnamon, and, from outside, jasmine and eucalyptus. I sit bare-chested in my shorts and sip my coffee, glancing warily at the New York Times unfolded––and unread––in front of me on the dining table. I close my eyes and listen to the birdsong outside and the white noise of the shower ceasing with a squeak as you turn off the water down the hallway.
A few minutes pass and I check my phone, staring at the emails I’ve left on read and quietly chiding myself to read them today. I hear your footsteps patting down the hall as you walk into the kitchen, hair still wet, wearing one of my dress shirts. You smell fresh, clean, and when I beckon you towards me to kiss you, your breath tastes like mint.
You slip into my lap, your legs still soft from shaving gel and the razor’s edge as you make yourself comfortable and I rest my hand on your thighs, covered with the length of my shirttail. You reach for the paper, freeing a section and shaking it open to read, your weight pressing against me.
Perhaps it’s the back of your neck or the mock concentration with which you read, but something in me stirs with new heat and I begin tracing patterns on your legs.
You clear your throat and turn the page. I nuzzle the space between your shoulder blades. You haven’t put a bra on yet. You shift, arching your back ever so slightly, pressing against my hardness as my hands slip to the top of your legs, slowly rubbing your inner thighs.
You sigh and turn the page.
My fingers climb lower, feeling the fabric of your panties where the edge meets flesh. You shift again and I throb, teasing you through the sheer silk. You slowly rock against me, alternating between pushing against my lap and my fingers, still locked onto the paper.
I slip my left hand under the billowing shirt and caress your breasts, teasing your rosy, pink nipples with my fingers and pulling you closer to me.
The new heat you’ve stirred quickens between us and you push harder, tilting against me. I push my fingers under the hem of your panties. You’re slick––smooth and wet––and you push again against my fingers on your clit, urgency in your hips.
I move both of my hands to your waist and pull your panties down, rolling them to your knees as you lean forward, allowing them to fall.
You turn, dropping the paper, and draping your arms over my shoulders, facing me, as I grip your waist.
You reach for me, positioning me against your opening, as I savor your grip, tight and warm, easing into you, your mouth locked on mine, our tongues locked, hungry. You bear down as I push, feeling you stretch, your wetness easily allowing me deep inside you.
I pause, my heartbeat rushing, relishing your skin against mine, your tightness, your heat, your slit dripping and glistening with nectar.
Your eyes gleam as I push deeper, fucking you with short thrusts while you grind against me, our hipbones beginning to burn.
You pull off the shirt, tossing it onto the floor, as I take your nipple into my mouth, softly sucking each as you squirm, occasionally pulling my face to yours to drink the breath from my mouth.
I can feel you starting to clench and spasm as you tilt hard, your pulse matching mine, your skin dewy with sweat. I can feel my hardness beginning to swell and I bite my lip, staving off my climax, though I ache to fill you, leave you exhausted, spent, and dripping me.
You reach between your legs and rub your clit as you shudder, tightening around me, milking me into you. I can feel myself fill you with each pulse and throb and you grip my legs with yours, pushing down to take all you can of me.
As our bodies slacken in their release, your mouth finds mine again.
Sated and wet with our mingling, you relax, keeping me inside you, as the sun gilds our bodies, casting trembling shadows from our intwined bodies that filter the dawn into feral joy, alive with love and spring.
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Catalog
I catalog her pictures: the images, the portraits, the glimpses of her that I keep and frame only in my thoughts and the silence of the undeclared.
I catalog my longing.
I started with the length of her eyelashes, then a small freckle on her forearm, another on her bicep. Upon encountering her legs again, I lost track of my work and resigned myself to tracing her lips with my eyes and the impossibility of counting the stars.
I wished that I was her lipgloss or sand on her legs.
I wished I was the sunlight on her back or the wind in her hair.
I wished.
In considering the futility of my task, I interrogated two impossibilities that have, since time immemorial, attracted and repelled each other.
It may be impossible to ever be with her. I can live with that picture.
But it is also impossible not to love her. That picture is becoming clear. I can live with that too.
And so I catalog my pictures: the images, the portraits, the glimpses of you that I keep and frame only in my thoughts and the silence of the undeclared.
I catalog my longing and I count the stars between us.
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Layer
Like clothing, there's some base layer of me that lies closest to you; to your skin: the elastic, the hem, the lace; the diaphanous silk or the form-hugging denim.
Tell me where I lay upon you; where I am closest. Speak to me plainly or in poetry. Speak to me in softness.
I know that there are layers to this; layers you've named, layers you're unconscious of, layers that remain undeclared and inarticulate, layers that throb in silence and the slick, soft warmth that becomes heat when you read me or I, you.
I savor every layer.
Each has its own character; its own arc, and, like the flesh it conceals, its own map of pleasure, rapture, and concealed joy.
I imagine unlacing your shoes or the sound of a zipper the same way I imagine your crumpled shirt at the foot of our bed or the hooks of your bra as they slip free in my fingers.
Even now, I taste you sweetly. Even now, you layer my life with strange and new complexities that I savor with each breath and every sigh that I long to coax from your deepest parts and transform into song.
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Change the first verb and the preposition. It's easier in French.
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From Miller’s Girl
“How does love come? In the movies, it’s, it’s like a curtain crashing to the stage. But in life, whatever of it is real, it is a quiet thing. Unrelenting. Inevitable.”
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Passage
I like that the nimble fingers that coax orgasms from the depths of blank sweet bliss are the same fingers that dance to leave me scarred with words like "you fill me..."
I want to drink those words from your mouth.
I want to taste those nimble fingers as they write ecstatic passages across the canvas of your body.
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No, Love is Not Dead
No, love is not dead in this heart these eyes and this mouth
that announced the start of its own funeral.
Listen, I've had enough of the picturesque, the colorful
and the charming.
I love love, its tenderness and cruelty.
My love has only one name, one form.
Everything disappears. All mouths cling to that one.
My love has just one name, one form.
And if someday you remember
O you, form and name of my love,
One day on the ocean between America and Europe,
At the hour when the last ray of light sparkles
on the undulating surface of the waves, or else a stormy night
beneath a tree in the countryside or in a speeding car,
A spring morning on the boulevard Malesherbes,
A rainy day,
Just before going to bed at dawn,
Tell yourself-I order your familiar spirit-that
I alone loved you more and it's a shame
you didn't know it.
(from "Love is Not Dead" by Robert Desnos)
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Tendresse
Sometimes, however, it feels like something else: a deeper longing.
This morning, for example, I re-read you and thought of the ways I have yet to touch you; the places I have yet to adore, caress and map.
The small of your back.
Your perfumed neck.
Your arms, your fingers, your lips, your breasts.
The cleft of your inner thigh, where, as I write, the thin hem of your panties curves around the outer borders of your sex, caressing the flesh I yearn to touch.
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What I Can Say Publicly
Is in other people's words, which will confound, outrage, titillate, or delight the amateur cloze passage readers.
“Every day we slaughter our finest impulses. That is why we get a heartache when we read those lines written by the hand of a master and recognize them as our own, as the tender shoots which we stifled because we lacked the faith to believe in our own powers, our own criterion of truth and beauty.”
― Henry Miller
She already knows to read in between the lines, undress every laced word, peel away the soft fabric of my undeclared desire, wrap herself around my silence, and fill the dull ache inside her with my fire.
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Cloze Passage
"A form of written examination in which candidates are required to provide words that have been omitted from sentences, thereby demonstrating their knowledge and comprehension of the text."
(Source)
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