There’s rosemary, that’s for remembrance. Pray you, love, remember.
And there is pansies, that’s for thoughts.
-Ophelia, Hamlet, Act4 scene5.
‘’And in the night’’
With a drunken man lying down stairs
Conversation flied through the twigs as if there were only us
And she hooked me onto this thing called romance
In front of her friends’ house, used to.
I was dreaming,
It was sweet.
The voice so bright the moon lights between the lips
I felt the warmth of blood through my vein
Drifting off to love.
I promised myself that I would never lose her
My timid desire for a delicate she,
I’m scarred with fragile affection,
I thought of that sometimes.
Romance is now dead and done.
And it cut into my rib cage deep and sound
The breath of baby dead silent
And it cut into me between flesh and soul.
‘’I could begin to open up and risk desire
For I move slower and
Quieter than most’’
I’ve gone too deep too soon I still forget too slow
I wish it wasn’t that way but at least it’s you.
Touch me here
Dance to me
‘’I don’t care
If’’ it repeated
I want to be where you are
For all that I desired humble as it can be but last a bit further
Than that of a cut flower
So when I look at the stuff there still you are not gone
Flesh and soul
Deep and sound
*Recomposed from Ex:Re – Romance by Elena Tonra
I resist the word penetration as a term to describe intercourse from a biological male perspective as it carries an invasive undertone. But the action itself is almost irresistibly desirable, not because it demonstrates any dominance attempt or desire of possession, but because of the actual physical presence of being possessed.
Being enveloped by a body, being accepted in a physical form, being hugged by the most intimate part of a human body.
It’s the only thing that a female body can not perform, or being performed, in a sexual context. But at the same time a woman become the only one who is capable of giving that acceptance, and ultimately, giving birth. In such an angle, the role of (physical) male body and female body in a sexual act is reversed, the female body being the one that is giving (compare to ejection), and the male body is the one receiving.
Love will fix it,
However I can’t fix love.
All that I lost, I missed, and all that I’m missing.
But she is there, right on time.
In the stream of unlimited moments she is out there awaiting me to bump into.
What if I can’t see all her beauty,
What if it’s always not enough?
Any thing stimulates me; everything is about you.
Thirty-three autumns that past,
Last words of the three thousand years old sacred tree,
World that has yet to come,
The tiny notes that remind me of the existence of a you.
(This work was partly done last October)
It has been four hours,
If the night falls it’s because it has no option but be
like there is nothing so certain at the end
certainty that we celebrate.
In the afternoon the solitude hurts me,
You are incapable
of hurting me anymore,
as you are gone,
to somewhere only you know.
Maybe your yurt,
Don’t tell me,
I can’t bear it.
I couldn’t see that coming,
but live it.
The world that I didn’t expect,
an empty one that I never thought of.
It has been eight months
passed without me noticing;
I was in the midst of torment,
and I’m still be.
“Everything we love is about to die, and that is why everything must be summed up with all the high emotion of farewell in something so beautiful we shell never forget it.” – Michel Leiris