There is an instant where you wanna cry. You want to scream. You want to yell from the bottom of your stomach and soul. And this is when you know you love or have loved somebody. When you look at someone. You see into their eyes. And you know. They are you. They are exactly who you are or were. And you love them you want nothing but to hold them. You want to shout in a carnal and cathartic agony until you feel that sense fulfilled. That sense that you have seen yourself. And can finally let go of yourself.
Tag Archives: love
A special sense of sensuality,
A feeling nothing else really gives
Of something no one else notices.
The amorous curves
Rise and fall,
Sway this way- that.
All breeding an intense admiration,
Akin to an adoration.
The tingling sensation starting in the soles of my feet
The tentativeness of a virgin
Reaching a hand towards the darkness.
Not too fast,
Don’t be too gentle…
But for heaven’s sake, be gentle!
At last reaching down to brush my fingertips
against the seemingly smooth surface,
like touching a black widow;
a wrong move or unwatchful eye
could be the death of me.
After the first few loves, you begin to have standards.
No longer will anything do,
Only some will start that tingle in your feet,
While others cause a rough ache and a flinch.
Driving along, when I see one I wish I had,
My hands grip the wheel a little hard,
Gritted teeth and a long exhale.
That vibration that fills my car,
But always starts at my feet.
Skin. I see it more and more each day as the blankest canvas. And nothing peeves me more than an underutilized space for expression. I have no tattoos, myself, but I crave them. I look at my arms, my chest, my entire body, and I see all that could be. Continually as words and images float across my eyes and before my mind, there is no adulteration. My imagination spreads them, recreates and reproduces them, across my self. In my head I see phrases and aphorisms drifting with their black text, changing their font, always looking for the best possible spot so as they might seat myself properly as an external representation of the philosophies I hold dear. Every illustration from the highest masterpiece to the simplest graffiti, I question whether it might have a place on this canvas of mine.
Perhaps this is why I love my scars. They are simple representations to those around me of my history, the good and the bad. They are visual reminders of the places I’ve been and some of the people I’ve met. No, this idea is separate. It goes beyond the idea of art and visual stimulation. I love them for their primality. The simple fact that they remind me of the fragility of life. That they keep my consciousness in check with the realization of its delicacy. And out of this recognition, arises a greater appreciation. The appreciation of all the times I’ve fallen and will fall, of all the times I’ve risen and will rise again. Then again, perhaps it is the visual recreation of this internal drive I like as well…