Afterward, you move in me
in other ways. You drag your beard
across my skin, you use your hands,
you rub your scent into me, you talk
in your lowest tone and pull my hair,
not roughly, but less than gently.
You handle me like the possession I am.
Peregrine
I miss you, you know, I miss your lips, your hands, your whole warm and strong body, and your face and your smiles, your voice. I miss you. But I like missing you so hard because it makes me feel strongly that you are not a dream, you are real, you are living, and I’ll meet you again.
Let’s continue this conversation in bed, she whispered, my legs can’t wait to hear what your hands have to say.
Some days I smolder
just at the thought of you
and me together
until my mind is full of smoke
and I can think of nothing else
but you, breathing against me.
And other days… today…
you make me want to burn,
burn you to the ground
and fuck the ashes
till they moan to be gathered
in my hands and held.
Either way, the fire wins.
In the end, with us,
the fire always wins.
She ached for him. She craved his hands. His lips. His touch. In any form. She just wanted to feel him feeling her. She thought he would never understand. But she was the one that didn’t understand that his hunger for her was greater than he ever knew.
Jessica Michele
Once I give myself
to the day, he uses me
however he wants,
and usually he wants it
hard and fast and often.But the night… oh, the night,
he wants to play… he wants
to spin his little games…
he wants me to understand
I am helpless in his hands.
I am too full of desire
I won’t promise to be gentle
Nor apologize for my needs
For when you invite me in
And my hands possess you
They are often… incorrigible
And they may run amok with you.
He knew the wants, the desires and the needs, of his lady. He knew when to talk and whisper…and just exactly what to say…
He was familiar with her soft spots…where to touch and kiss, and with the perfect amount of pressure…
He knew when, and how, to use his hands, his fingers, his tongue…
He would lead her to the edge, the very edge, and gently walk her back. He knew that when she began to beg that she was almost ready…
He knew when his lady was ready to be taken…to be fucked, over and over, and over again…
He knew that when she had finally had all she could stand…that he would ravish her one more time…
All of this so she would know that he knew…
I was born chasing love.
I walked through all its rivers.
Called out for it in the night,
trying to find its source.
Mistook ponds for something
they’re not. Fell into the hands
of rapids more than once.The love I was chasing
was right here all along:
in the lake of my chest.
Poetry doesn’t have to rhyme, it just has to touch someone where your hands couldn’t.
