SHE begs him to touch her name

with warm heart and whisper shadows,

looking deeply within her perceptions,

seeing the beauty deep inside,

skin confining his heart snugly,

melting like a sultry candle

dripping through her soul,

immersed drops of heated wax.

She dances with full abandon -

happy spinning and prancing,

unconditional love as she

shapes her face into joy,

watching the sunset falling

from her sight, wanting to

fasten the sun to her heart,

capturing dusk of love’s light.

But, HE prepared to sneak away

as he sensed the emotions rising

in the dawn of sunrise, brushing

cobwebs of his resolve, hiding

in the shadows of sexual love

memories of hot sensual touching

promises of forever in passion heat

sense of fingers exciting and arousing

as she moistened his lips with her tongue

an explosion, a crescendo, unending lust -

but he wanted to be free in the morning

slinging getaway bag over his shoulder

a train riding the rails out of town

with him as sole passenger.

While she stands alone at the station,

commitment chugs off out of sight.

everyone would die

just to have a taste

of agape love

but it hurts

it hurts to love unconditionally

it hurts to forgive and forget

it hurts to watch them in pain

so i choose eros

i choose eros because it's easier

i choose eros because it's simple

i choose eros because agape hurts

pleasure over pain

River to ocean

Same by two names

Drinking the other

From the ebb of flow

The trickle runs

To source

As flesh does spirit

Two

and one if by sea......

his lips

were warm

but his eyes

were ice cold.

skating

thin lines

I would wonder

if a blunder

would lead him

to another.

 I wonder

if a failure

would hurt him

more than it will hurt me.

and with his hand

on my waist

i wonder

if i wonder

too much

and the ice

seems smooth

and pleasant

good for

skating

and not for

falling, except

for into

warm arms.

Desire. Heat. Passion. Hours lost in unbridled lust for young flesh. Sweat. Moans. Explosions of spasmodic ecstasy. Ah, these are the pleasures from which an old man's dreams are made. The intensity of erotic sexual congress - the animalistic pillaging of a willing body - or two - the submission to fantasy and debauchery; memories fading to dreams indeed.

Yet, that tight young flesh loosens, wrinkles, and sags. The exotic scent of the moist flower dissipates and dries. The ecstasy reduces to expectancy and then neutrality. Through it all, though, for the very lucky, remains a partner. A friend. Encouragement, respect and commiseration. A connection and bond forged in the fires of youth and strengthened over time by the battles of life. We grow self conscious of our bodies as they wither and fail, but the comfort of a hug and a snuggle exists without judgement. A shoulder to cry on or an embrace to rejoice with; priceless as time trudges on. Unconditional love is tried and true. Acceptance and forgiveness of flaws and failings is something Eros never offered. Agape allows us to grow old with a sense of dignity and purpose. My familiar rock, regardless how weathered, will forever offer more comfort, support, and that elusive notion of love than any ample bosom of a fleeting dream. Somehow I know - the feeling is mutual. 

Agape is never ending, never judged, never forgotten.  Eros is quickly ending, always judged, mostly forgotten. The Eros of a human Brings certain happiness, but not to the degree where you will always have it in mind. It can be forgotten. The agape of a human brings unconditional happiness, happiness that you can't keep your mind off of. Happiness that a mother brings to her child. Happiness that light gives a flower. Agape is happiness.

My love is stolen kisses in the dark, away from prying eyes, just barely hidden beneath judgmental murmurs, whispers, rumors of what had been or what was or what was really going on behind closed doors, discreet. My love is a name held like a prayer, like a godsend, clutched between my fingers like the fleeting thought that maybe this is truly the last time we could ever be like this, tangled with my worries and hopes filling the crevices between our warm bodies, synchronizing and filling each other perfectly with my fingers melting into the gaps between his. My love is forbidden trysts across empty avenues and blinking streetlamps, silent promises of another, a next, an always, the stray cat you loved enough to hide in your closet and feed slipped scraps to in spite of the danger of being caught and tossed out. My love mewls and mewls and mewls and mewls, and it is all I can do to keep it muffled under wraps.

My love is a countdown of the days until disaster.

My love is writhing and naked and blinking in the full light of day, weak against barrages of accusations and shaken heads, pointed fingers and misinterpreted shrugs of denial. My love, I know, is on the surface the textbook definition of a superior taking advantage of his subordinate, the conniving veteran and the innocent youth bridging inappropriately between thirteen years of experience, of emotional hardship and development, through things that should have never been said and fingertips that should have never met and lips that should have never, under any circumstances, molded and softened against each other so perfectly that first night in the dark, away from prying eyes, beneath the judgment that had already begun to bud. My love is wrong, it is said. My love is not what I think it is, what he thinks it is, what anyone believes it be or will be or had been -- because it does not exist. My love is false, a sexual ploy between two unequally vulnerable individuals. My love, I am told, is not unconditional.

My love asks me sometimes if I have already collared him with a forever beneath the fire of his skin. I nod, always.

She was love overflowing. It dripped into a chalice, and it had never been emptied. It was too great a cup, occupied in the grandest halls of tribute. Everyone drank from the blood of her bleeding heart resided in that golden cup. And those who poised their lips to it received the Gods' offerings as the Gods received their adoration. She could not love just one singular person, for her love was the purest, most self-sacrificing, and that produced magic. It was from this that sprang forth Spring, flowers and water itself. Eros became instantly infatuated with her, and he wrongly wanted Agape all to himself. Erratic, lacking caution all his life, the Great Gods rightlh prohibited him seeking courtship with Agape. It came from fear. What if all of her love, the power and drive of their world, could be directed in an all consuming flame of combustion when met with Eros' desires? He was to remain on the plains of Earth, as always, spurring and flaming man's desires to produce more serving mortal servants, and that alone. But...He made many a plea and entreaty for her to run away with him and to forget what he considered to be her shallow admirers. She refused him, even though her love for him grew daily as did his attentions. His free spirit made her long for him, to be free with no bars. Agape worried. She had to love everyone equally. That was where her power came from, she did not know what was to become of her if she didn't obey it. Equitable love tempered the sheer strength of her love. Eros, brooking no refusal and becoming ravenously jealous by the day, entered the hall on a cool, starry evening, and convinced her to give him all the love she possessed; he drank all the contents of her cup of sustenance. She had died right then, as did Eros, and they created the first lovers' suicides and with it a curse; with their deaths, the bountiful spring valleys dried up and cracked like deserts. Her body turned to stone, and she was whisked away into a special part of the underworld. She herded the lost lovers of the world, harnessing their power to give to the Gods who restored the scarred Earth. She, a lost lover, and now the Queen of lost lovers.

........................................................................

Agape's tears ran black against her cheeks, underneath her black veil. She stirred an orange river with a large wooden ladle; what bobbed up from its rivets and currents were statues of lovers once possessing the warm skin that forever held a blush. Now, their skin was cold stone. She constantly wept for those the world treated so cruelly, a world that drove them to suicide. The River of Suicides, it was called, and her tears created it; indeed, she cried for all the lost lovers of the world over, and those tears made the river they drowned in within the Underworld.

Darling,

just hold me,

just hold me,

just hold me,

just hold me,

just hold me,

just hold me.

That 

would be

enough.

Blinking and shinny the clouds are calling, 

Night and noon debating,  the day grows longer. 

Love candle scenting, honey pot sweeter. 

Night flies whispering "the lovers are together".

Yielding to another made their story line a lyrics, 

The beauty of their love made unlike terms attractive, 

Their rythemic smile traps the eyes of all, 

Their love supersies the bite of a beast. 

Dressing in hatred to lift fallen crowns. 

The Creator of doom making love a tale. 

Crushing the bones, the feelings were pleading. 

Life Omits Vandals Eminent. 

The tales of Barbie's made love recanate. 

The lynching doom was now a victim of loneliness. 

Sweet scent of vanilla makes valentine lovely. 

The freezing fire will always burn forever.