I live for the affection.
Stroking my hair? Yes. Rubbing my hand with your thumb? Yes please. Side hug around my waist while walking? Omg yes. Washing my hair, cooking for me, calling me nicknames? Yes, yes, yes.
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“I don't love women the way men love women.
I don't want to tame them.
I don't want to own them.
I don't want to treat them like a trophy in a case.
I just want to be close to them.
It's still hunger,
but a different kind of hunger.
-I almost didn't recognize it at first.”
-She is the poem by June Bates
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i have spent years
trying to string together
the prettiest words
for the people that i love,
but i have never had anyone
that will write me poetry
in return until you.
you say i'm rubbing off on you
and i smile and say that
it is a mutual happening,
but i'm not sure if i'm
becoming more like you
or if i'm just realizing
how much of you has
always been in me.
i think i have known you forever.
i think i have loved you even longer.
-mars
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there's nothing quite like alternating giving intense, focused head to each other -- having her cum painted over your lips and cheeks, feeling your body trembling from the force of coming apart on her tongue, her hands, again and again, until you have managed to block out the whole world, narrowing your focus to the raft of the bed, the lifeline of touch
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there are reasons to kiss you, hidden in the curve of your smile.
you laugh and it's beautiful, something giddy in my sun-warmed cheeks. my hands twitch at my sides, and i wonder.
there's a Filipino tradition, one i've heard of but never really seen.
harana, my relatives call it. men serenading women under the cover of night, guitar in hand and illuminated by the moon. they repeat that, over and over. only at night, my lola says. it's too hot, too bright during the day.
i mouth the words: harana, serenade. i think about standing outside your window, lips parted in song.
i wonder if i should kiss you. soft lips on mine, your back pressed against a wall. shadows cradling us like curtains. you say something, then, and i find i can't quite meet your eyes.
it's strange, isn't it, how i find more solace in the dark.
(too hot, too bright, too exposed in the day.)
we talk, but i don't remember what about. you grin like the sun, and like the tide the words well in my throat, pushing, pushing...
hey, what if...
i look down at the ground. my mouth stays shut.
the sky is growing darker, pinks turning into purples turning into blues. it's not quiet, but sitting in this corner, i can almost pretend.
my thoughts drift. i think about learning the guitar.
you don't sing much, but neither do i.
that's okay, i think, gaze on the horizon. on the setting sun. it doesn't have to be good. it just has to be you.
your hair sways in the wind, the skin of your neck exposed. a part of me wonders how you'd react, then, if i kissed that spot— a giggle, a shocked gasp?
i tear my eyes away, nails digging into the meat of my palm.
i wish, i think to myself, that this came easier to me.
our friends wave at us some distance away. the moment is broken, dusting ourselves off from the pavement.
we don't kiss. a sigh unravels from my chest.
(under a blanket of stars, would i have been braver?)
i'd sing for you, is the thing. i'd sing for you. does it have to be profound? does it have to shake the earth, make flowers bloom from the grass?
i can only give you my voice, awkward and stilted and a little too soft.
i hope the moon answers my prayer. i hope she tells me it's enough.
(maybe, one night, i'll be brave.)
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