“She has a quiet paroxysm. Now remember that these are the days before digital pornography. There is no cliché of how women are supposed to orgasm, no idea in their heads of how they are supposed to sound when they climax.
Mrs. Daldry’s first orgasms could be very quiet, organic, awkward, primal. Or very clinical. Or embarrassingly natural.
But whatever it is, it should not be a cliché, a camp version of how we expect all women sound when they orgasm.
It is simply clear that she has had some kind of release.” ~ Sarah Ruhl, In the Next Room, or the vibrator play
It’s the birth of a rose or the mist in a wintry breath.
It’s the finality in doors that close or a breach to a sparrow’s nest.
It’s watery like a spring rain or dreary as a desert quest.
It’s the sin in pain or even the delight in your best.
Moments lapse into poised yet colorful imagination,
Until perilous winds blow apart this hesitance observation.
Stop! It’s sightless to natural desires unearthed by my expectations.
I see him, in images, millions of bitmaps forming fanciful illusions,
As radically collapsing into teeny specks; the crux to my conclusion.
Over and over, I see him; in softness marked by a moonlight night,
As he intently seeks relevance through stimulus, influence or plight.
And to think he was here with me; all that masculinity standing tall,
Passing through my soul, alive; as we danced to a red sunset and all,
It’s the touch of love,
Feelings, seized tightly as a leather glove.
It’s the intensity in affection.
It’s the height of infatuation cajoled by intersection.
It’s the wet of his lips and the swerve in his curve.
It’s the tang of a salty skin and the hardness in its hold,
Ah yes! It’s in that tightness this body intimately knows.
It’s the convergence in fancy with an encounter over time,
Everything else is relative rather than dimly sublime.
I see him, more and more, I see him; blood to a soul flows,
In smiles and whispers filled with desire; which a heart knows.
Drifting in and out of illusions, it’s apparent to me,
Emerging facts possibly hidden; irrefutably feel pristine.
Diana Mary Sharpton ©All Rights Reserve 2015
Miss you terribly Sugar...
Diana Mary Sharpton ~ Poetry & Photography ©All Rights Reserve 2017 Contact: DianaMSharpton@Gmail.com
Diana Mary Sharpton
Diana Mary Sharpton
“I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.”