this is the slow kind of work the kind that smoulders beneath the surface of my heart-mind lava in waiting the kind that doesn’t feel...

beneath the placid surface a rapidly boiling ocean

dictate that what you can’t give i should get from someone else but i must admit you have somewhat of a monopoly on me

i must say, it gives me immense satisfaction, the way you can’t seem to stop kissing me whenever you leave.

the more i need, the more i give.

i wonder sometimes if these phantom rushes of blood i feel in your absence are the grown-up equivalent of a child belatedly discovering a...