Wanting ( you )
2023.06.19
Morning
Nothing feels as good as being with you. What am I to do with this information? As many cookies, flavors of ice cream, bars of chocolate, spoonfuls of honey, licks of my own dripping desire as I consume, still my longing longs for you.
I wake and feel a rumbling. Any fear that I would cease to feel this dissipates as my breath caresses my belly awake.
I lie on the floor and glimpse the splinter in my palm from when we were climbing trees more than a week ago now. I refuse to remove it. I turn my head and see the pile of clothes I am resisting washing because you’ve touched them. I feel the crazy beautiful monster digging her teeth into me once again; we are shedding another skin. She asks me to invite you in, as though I would deny you this delicious mess. The revealing of Desire’s dance is my calling, if ever there was one I could call mine.
Before you, I did not know that I could want so much and feel satisfied in experiencing the pursuit of it. The journey takes on new meaning yet again. Am I a little lamb lying in wait? No. And yes. Waiting only for you to devour this plate so I can offer the next.
“Do you want more?” I wonder. The question, an albatross whose answer is, perennially, “yes.” Is the questioning purely a drama to bring me deeper into connection with the longing that, layer by layer, brings me closer to feeling you, even through all this distance? Is space a salve just as is it a temporary torture chamber?
Yes. And yes again.
Ask the right question and the answer always is YES. Invite the paradox and I am becoming it more each day.
+++++++++
Later that day
There are splinters in my palms
from the trees we climbed
They remind me of you
I leave them inside
You make a mess of me
I welcome it
I want to feel
everything and everything and everything again
Give me more
Can’t contain this needing
“Fuck. I’m still not perfect,” I realize again.
Whenever I stop publishing it’s not because I’ve stopped writing - to the contrary I never stop writing - but often I stop publishing because I start fixating on the perfect arrangement. I want to make it make sense.
But then I remember the order in which it played out only “makes sense” now; that is, my mind will have arranged it according to the storylines I allow (which may not include the whole truth but only the connections that have been illuminated), and the truth remains: the “nonsensical” happened and is happening. It only ever makes sense in retrospect.
What does perfect even mean? Nothing. Just a collection of rules glorifying something. Different through each lens. We can only ever live up to our own definition, and we are the ones who decide what that is. So, incidentally, all the power lies in your (and my) hands.
Would you fancy that? A chance at anything Desire calls you to. How much will you allow yourself access to?
The troubling part for me has always been that when I allow myself greater access I am overwhelmed by the way it all doesn’t make sense, yet it is absolutely perfect.
Lately I’ve been breathing more and listening to different music and somehow the combinations of rhythm and melody syncing with the ripples of my body has helped me integrate the great nuance thrust into me by Love.
Just over a week ago, I got back from California. Eight days with you. Long enough that it felt like forever, yet never long enough.
Balancing my intensity is a challenge you wield greatly. The more I bring, the more that is coming and I keep asking, “do you want more?” in so many different iterations. And the answer is always yes.
So I’m learning to trust that there is no cage. No limitation I need to place. I’m seeing again there is always a layer deeper. However it plays out, I fear not. I mustn’t. How else will I see all that I am? And isn’t that everything I’ve wanted? To be seen in all this mess? To know it’s safe, and welcome, and unbearably hot and dangerous, to be all of this, openly?
Have I not always wanted to dance this bliss? This passion? This ecstatic nothingness.
I walk down the street and I’m almost coming. I dance in the mirror just to see desire oozing. To help me believe it. I show you to help me believe it, too - that my pleasure is yours and yours is mine. The greatest renewable resource we have access to. I witness in near-disbelief as I scratch myself to orgasm. So much emotion I am gushing every moment. It’s hot and wet and I’m crying and I don’t know where any of this came from but fuck, it’s realer than anything. No performance. Just constantly surprising myself with what’s coming through me. Endless energy.
Yesterday I laid on the ground and imagined you going down on me. Oh, to know what it feels like for my pussy to flower open, like the flowers she is so often portrayed as.