Tuesday, 23 June 2009

Making love.

We fumble around.
Lovers in a field of cotton.
I don't utter a word;
Neither do you.
My words could not clarify any better
The feelings expressed in our clammy, loving embrace.
Our flesh is full of heat.
And our heads are full of pleasure chemicals.
Adrenaline has my heart pounding.
Making love is never how one imagines it to be,
But we try to transcend that.
Losing all sense of position in the heat of the moment
Seems the daftest thing.
I kiss your neck and nibble at your earlobes.
You do the same.
The twilight of the room is overcome marginally
By two large candles burning with diminished flames.
We sleep without sheets.
We smoke cigarettes and drink strong coffee.
I hold you to my chest and stroke your hair.
You kiss my stomach, just around the navel.
It feels peculiar but love renders exceptions real.
I wish the morning never to come.
But it will.
And I'll love you just as strongly when the new day begins.
For once this is more than just sex.
I've had it a thousand times;
I could never have sex again.
Making love with you can't be reduced to an activity.
You're a lifestyle.
You're my lifestyle.
I live you; I breathe you.
I think that you breathe me.
And I've never ever felt like this before.

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