I'm sitting here, all alone, watching the clock go by. Tick tock, the minutes pass and yet it seems as if time stood still. Boredom has sunken deep within my veins and I feel as if I'm going to scream without you here. It's as if I've held tight the tourniquet only to shoot up emptiness. That tiny little air bubble that passes into your blood stream and causes your heart to fail. Or just - switch "off."
Beside me, I'd find you. Before me as well. And frankly, without your presence right now - I'm feeling that longing feeling, where you just wish that certain someone were waving their arms in front of your face.
"Look at me. Hey! Hi! Look, it's me! You've been longing for me!"
Ahh, loneliness, how I loathe thee.
But it's only hours that need to pass before this feeling subsides. And again I'd be in your loving arms, held tight, ferociously protected, declared your substance, your being. Your everything.
Such a feeling. Whirls of emotion cascading through every twist and turn of your human body. Intertwining, exploding.
Even better when you're naked.
Nakedness is the true virtue between us, wo-man vs. woman. But together, we are together, not as two. One. So be the word most used to describe passions held forth on late night hours, middle of the week. Silence.
Shift and stretch, tremble, squeal while you writhe and reach, pressing firmly against your abdomen. How your knuckles whiten as they grasp the hot flesh against your navel, pinching and prodding as if you were holding back from losing yourself completely.
Out of Body Experience, so the scientists would say.
To lay, quaking in the residue, the atmoshpere, the focus of energy. Released. Only to fold again, into One, to drown in dreamscape, catching sublime sweetmares.
Mm, Sweetmares. Sweet Dreams shaken like the ice of a NightMare Martini, poured dry, yet deliciously wet. Only to wake out of breath, but feel no fear, simply overwhelming exhilaration.
Sexual, in most cases.
Yes, only a few short hours until this loneliness subsides. Minutes tick, tock past, seconds screaming at the rapidness of their flight. Almost. Soon.
Counting, constantly looking. God, and craving! Tasting upon my lips thy sweet glory, a remembrance of how lucky the number three is. Three. Two threes mirroring one another form an eight.
Eight, flipped to its side forms infinity.
How time will seem with you. Here. Soon. Infinite hours, seeming endless, again.
Oh how I thrive on thee.
Clothed. Sky clad, only to be seen in thy own light, your aura. Blinded, squinting, I stare and picture myself walking with it, against it, feeling. Molesting, fingers formed within it, shaking, pulling. Feeding.
Yes, your aura.
Fades, does it not, when we are One, with the lucky Three, as we form our Eight. Only to stand still in the times of Infinity.
Almost. Soon.
11:31pm.
Awaiting.
Almost.
Soon.
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This was written back in October of 2003, when I was dating only women. It's as close to erotic I've gotten in poetry. Whee.
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