On writings … love

I am of simple ways and shallow things.

These lead me swiftly deeper …

Into dark places, in warm folds, in glorious decadence.

Of these things though, stems all things which I desire.  The light touch, the heavy breathing, the feelings and thoughts of this must never end.

This must ever, never end.  From these things, come what I love of love.

The feel of them pressed against you after such things, the relishing of each breath as you inhale the memory & thoughts of that which had just been laid out before you & that which lays beside you now, with all the warmth of love defusing languidly in to the air from the sheets & their heat pushing against you where your skin lays along theirs.

Such a powerful thing, that even on the coldest days; you find yourself bare to the world and that warmth of these things is so strong it holds back the very air from making you shiver.  This feeling we have in which we makes us believe we will be better than we were before having known them.  This feeling in which we Believe we could be better.


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