19 January 2015
"I think we both missed out on a great opportunity here." Carrie, Four Weddings and a Funeral.
These words spoken by Andie MacDowell in the film having spent the night with Hugh Grant as she is leaving to go back to the US. The realisation that something has potential, and yet bad timing, difficult circumstances prevents that potential from growing, from developing. Of course in the film, they don't miss out completely as they do end up together.
But, it is those few words that echo in my thoughts right now, although it wasn't after spending a night, it wasn't after anything particular, but it's still something that recent events makes me think that yes, there's been a great opportunity missed out on here.
Something which could have been great, something with potential, something that could have been rather interesting and lovely. But alas, that opportunity has been "thrown away", lost. Missed.
And I think we have. Both missed out that is.
And that is a real shame.
16 January 2015
14 January 2015
To feel that closeness. That intimacy. The intimate moments that come from such simple moments. Moments of closeness. There is nothing so precious as moments such as this, when there can be such a beautiful closeness.
That warmth. That bond. That connection. I need to feel the depths of his submission to my dominance. To feel him, and letting him know from my touch how much he is cherished and in return, I can feel his obsession, his passion, his love.
I am not the first person you loved.— Clementine von Radics, “Mouthful of Forever”
You are not the first person I looked at
with a mouthful of forevers. We
have both known loss like the sharp edges
of a knife. We have both lived with lips
more scar tissue than skin. Our love came
unannounced in the middle of the night.
Our love came when we’d given up
on asking love to come. I think
that has to be part
of its miracle.
This is how we heal.
I will kiss you like forgiveness. You
will hold me like I’m hope. Our arms
will bandage and we will press promises
between us like flowers in a book.
I will write sonnets to the salt of sweat
on your skin. I will write novels to the scar
of your nose. I will write a dictionary
of all the words I have used trying
to describe the way it feels to have finally,
finally found you.
And I will not be afraid
of your scars.
I know sometimes
it’s still hard to let me see you
in all your cracked perfection,
but please know:
whether it’s the days you burn
more brilliant than the sun
or the nights you collapse into my lap
your body broken into a thousand questions,
you are the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
I will love you when you are a still day.
I will love you when you are a hurricane.
13 January 2015
A gentle touching of lips. A gloved hand tracing his chiselled jaw, cupping his face she looks at him, his lips, wanting to devour them, to devour him.
But despite her hunger for him, her mouth softly brushes his, a kiss so gentle it takes his breath away, stealing words from him that he had yet to find.
He pulls her in closer, tighter, urging her to take more from him. But in that moment, he realised she had already taken everything, that she had stolen so much more from him.
She had taken it bit by bit, she had taken him piece by piece, but in taking it, in stealing it, she had set him free.
He realised he could not let her go, for she had him in her hands.
All of him.