A Memory In Pink

I love it when I find a poem from my deleted blog that I can repost to my new on. In this case the poem found me. A Reader from London refound me and shared two. Thank you!

Just As...

And just as you think you have found every possible way to submit... I prove you wrong.

Before

The others, the ones before, the ones who have shared you, those who thought they owned you, and perhaps you too believed they did, until us, when you discovered what owned actually means and gave yourself to a slavery you only dreamed of before, liberating and eternal, no matter the distance.

I am slowly findling my poems from the Tumblr purge of my former site.

in the candlelight and fire your body is art, full or line and shadow, tied, able to move just enough to prove your helplessness.

I caress your back, stopping to nibble, my sharp teeth leaving small marks on your alabaster flesh. branding you as mine.

My fingers cup your bottom, They…

The Real Things Never Die

At times you seem a dream.

Impossibly perfect, if not for the world,

At least for me. Every line and confession.

Every slowly strip tease and revelation

Kept so silent for so long. Released. Shared.

Trusted. Every curve just where my dreams would have them.

Every desire a mirror. Dreams that became hopes.

But, time and distance, pasts and vulnerabilities

Have their cost. And yet, even now, apart,

You seem a dream more real than a heart can stand

And I am left not knowing what is and is not,

Like a night lost in lust, so deep it feels like

A movie without a proper ending,

Real and not real and a little floundering,

Something vintage and yet somehow still vibrant.

Lust lives. Love lives. The real thing never dies.

At Our Best

Every time I see you anew, I am unsure. A tender kiss? A ravaging? Domination or a focus on your beautiful pleasure? At our best, it's all four.

Hi, send me a private message

Reach out any time.

Too Perfect

She is perhaps too perfect, too close, and at the same time too far away. Owned but only in the moments she is in need of the particular passion you offer, the only way you know how to love, an odd mix of tender and madness, too much for some, for most perhaps, but all you have.

No Wonder I Am Smitten

It's the knowing. The certainty. That you will. That you want to. No, need to, move from fantasy to reality, anything, anything at all, to please me.

Soul Love

And after they are done with you. And after I am done with you and you are cut down. No one except the one who knows you best (Me) could ever understand why you would fall to your knees and thank me.

This is How I Want You.

This is how I want you,  spent from hours of touch and penetration,  no part of you  innocent or unfilled,  your body trembling,  your throat raw from moans and cries of orgasm,  the sheets pulled loose by your clinched hands,  your nipples tender,  your clit throbbing,  beautifully abused,  you clamber up,  and whisper,  “Please” as you reach for my cock and draw it to your swollen lips. 

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Tumblr killed my original poetry site, The Other Poems, after 8 years and 12,000+ followers. If you would be kind enough to share this poem, I may find some of my friends and followers.