“It isn’t sad,” a poet had said,
“that she doesn’t remember me,
it is sad that I remember her.”
Memory blesses and curses …
for a while, and then it fades away,
unless it is anchored in fear,
colored by infatuation, twisted.
Innocent, sweet memory stays only
as knowing what you love, so you
could recognize it next time you
meet it, no matter what cloak
it wears, what flesh, what tears.
Longing for love, when you know it,
is like hunger and thirst, like
every single instinct there is,
natural, powerful. Do you know it?
Do I know it? I know love.
That I know without trying to know.
I remember you, as I remember
a creamy, silky, saffron cake, juicy,
succulent, tastier than life. I long
to nibble on your thighs, to suck on
your toes and to walk my tongue
from your neck to your knees…
and back… and back… and back.
I only got to taste the crust,
while wishing to enter deep
into the cake that is you,
reveal the layers, hidden and shy.
You need to be revealed just as much
as I am driven to reveal you.
When you open up to be
tasted, that’s heaven for both.
That’s the source of life as it is.
The man must surrender his craving,
he must be a man to serve her
by tasting her fully and sincerely
seeking her pinnacle of delight, not his own.
That’s divine revelation, that’s
the portal to bliss — to real touch.
But only if his hands are gentle,
trustworthy, only if she can be
certain his intentions are pure.
You are seen, love,
know that you are seen,
and loved for both what you are,
and what you are bound to become.
