You restore your self to me again but do not ask how many of your kisses are more than enough. And for the short revolution where the sun hides from us, we taste one another. Sampling lips and breath with tongues and fingers. This despite our swearing silently that we should not be sitting before this feast: Eating. Craving. Wanting.

Danger. Danger. You whisper as I slide inside of you.

I do not want you to be my mistress. I do not want you to be fleeting like everything else we will touch in our lives. I implore you: Do not let this be like your father, and die on us.

(Lesbia was the lover of the great Greek poet Catallus. Many of the his erotic poems were dedicated to her. More than his lover, she was the poet’s unrequited love.)

You always talk bad to me, when your visions of our nights run in reverse. This when you are dark silence when I hold you inside of my arms as a display of my love and want. Never has a woman been loved more than you are, right now. But never have I seen a woman more conflicted about being loved. Up and down and all around, like I know I can – if the breathing widens our constricted, snaking space.

But under that fleeting cloak of night we are somehow safe. And together. Your words are soft; and melting with an erotic timbre that only your mouth knows. I put my ear close, so as to not miss any of your subtle colors. Then, when you bit your lip, I leap into you, cupping my mouth with yours – to capture even more of your candied letter charges.

I could not crave anything more than I am in desirous rapture of you now. You, wet and nipples hard – are the only flinching thing in my quest to satiate something more dynamic than petty lust. For this, there is no liquid gold apart from your prized, damp mouth and the dripping sex between your legs.

I dread the coming of the sun. The coming of the day. When the intoxication will slip away. And your sounds will become dry songs.

(Unrequited love is a love that is not reciprocated by the person which is desired.)

We have said that we will simply lay in this, your same bed. We say, nothing more. We swear that we will not engage. Entangle. And then when I arrive into your drunken room, you are naked. The sheet only hiding one breast. Your curves are for my darkest temptation.

Now, you know this – but I will belabor its searing sword points because I have no one else to share this with: Our words are lightning. Negative electric currents. Both of our lips tingle with high voltages.

You know that positive lightning is a rare form of this kind of strike. And when you close your eyes – tell me that you do not see what I do: Blue white explosive lightning strikes.

(Lesbia is eroticism. She is sadness. She is euphoria. She is bitter disappointment.)

Our hands and fingers find the other’s body. You, slipping under my shirt and tracing lines down and around my waistband.

We tangle in a dance of heavy breathing. Mouths close and on the neck and ears.

Our falling into one another breaks my tongue. In this moment’s darkness, where we are closing our eyes because we cannot see, opens up our other senses. And that sixth sense: our heart. For this, I do not clutter the moment with words. My body is the only language strong enough to entice you into understanding.

You undress me as though you have no choice. As though this was going to happen, from the past it has come with revenge. Button by button I open up to you, as if I were the one hiding. As if I were the one who could not.

And then the dance begins – with both of us flirting with the fire, basking in the game of this seduction. Aiming for the center and slow. But only for a while. Only until you open your legs and I dive for your neck.

(A notable form of unrequited love is self-inflicted masochistic infatuation.)

Desire like this causes bruises that are slow to heal.

I am symptomatic. I am reeling and I do feel shame in wanting something that does not – moreover, cannot – have me as I have her. In my gut. In my head. And in my heart.

In your bed, I am persuasion and this is not I.

If you forget me, I have lost everything I have ever gained.

What I do not want to happen is my crazy heart. And yours.

…to only lay with you and this thrill one more time…

~ by The Provocateur on August 31, 2007.

2 Responses to “Lesbia”

  1. Mmmmm. Delicious as usual.

  2. This one is absolutely my favorite.

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