Sex Without Love
How do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.
NOT by me
Originally posted by Leo.M
Sex Without LoveHow do they do it, the ones who make love
without love? Beautiful as dancers,
gliding over each other like ice-skaters
over the ice, fingers hooked
inside each other's bodies, faces
red as steak, wine, wet as the
children at birth whose mothers are going to
give them away. How do they come to the
come to the come to the God come to the
still waters, and not love
the one who came there with them, light
rising slowly as steam off their joined
skin? These are the true religious,
the purists, the pros, the ones who will not
accept a false Messiah, love the
priest instead of the God. They do not
mistake the lover for their own pleasure,
they are like great runners: they know they are alone
with the road surface, the cold, the wind,
the fit of their shoes, their over-all cardio-
vascular health--just factors, like the partner
in the bed, and not the truth, which is the
single body alone in the universe
against its own best time.thats way good... xox
NOT by me
Originally posted by skipping_gurl
lets here a lil bit ...
Tock
tick
tock
tick
tock
tick
incandescent
candlelight
sprawled across
these pages
so possessively
tock
tick
tock
tick
tock
heated wax
pliable
between cautious
fingertips
caressively molding
the glossy beads
of liquid
heat
tick
tock
tick
tock
silhouetted
softly in the
candle glow
stacks of
books
pile high
across the old,
careworn desk
tick
tock
tick
comforting silence
but for
the scratching
of a pen and
the ticking of
the bedside
clock
tock
tick
wicks
cool
as the light
grows ever
smaller
as the minutes
pass
undeterred
tock
silence
darkness
completion