October 23, 2003
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Be prepared.
The idea of you possessing me as a man possesses a woman, of my biting your lip and screaming for more like some cheap cable porn...
Our love exploding in a shower of electric sparks, lightning striking the house that harbours the years of my rejection, my self doubt.
The reality of our sexes fused, of my need, previously unknown, fullfilled, exposes me, my nature, as childlike before I met you, and permitted you entrance. Virginity lost is not to be reclaimed, it is like the months of the year strung on a necklace, plastic discarded, a childhood relic made of pastel, fragile beads.
I. Am. Defined. In the wake of love and lust I find a woman made of sea foam and concrete, an Aphrodite, and as I am claiming her I realize that she is me, and I laugh, because I thought I had known myself and I had not.
How could you, a man, understand the varied tides of my being? How could you know that with your rhythm you altered mine? You pushed in, and all instincts of retreat were forgotten. I have learned to surge forward, to embrace, to relish. I am not afraid anymore, though I understand even more acutely my former fear.
A year ago and still I find this sweet plague consuming me.
How can I sleep when this mind is racing, nose in the dirt, desperate. There is something to be found in this waking world and I shall find it, for I have made a sweater of that former eye-covering wool and it is keeping me warm in October's chill, when your flesh is not.
It is a garment easily discarded when you present yourself.
It's more than sex. Yet how I understand how it has come to be known as the art of making love.
Yours and mine. We do not need words but how we like to use them.
The dark cannot hide you from me and try as I might I cannot hide from you.
You claim to love about me even things that you do not like.
Marry me. If not today, one of any of our tomorrows.
astera at 9:24 p.m.