Will You Just Kiss Me

Ruby red, that was the color of her lips.  Martin loved to stare at her lips as she talked and get lost in the red color.  He even had a reoccurring dream where the two of them were having a one way conversation where he was himself and she was just a pair of lips carrying on as if nothing were any different.  For a while he wasn’t sure if it were just her lips he had a fascination with or any if women’s lips would do.

“Kiss me, Esme,” he requested.

“What?  No.  Why?”  She replied, caught off guard.

“Because, I want to see something.”

“What?”

“Nothing, just- come here and kiss me.”

“I’m not going to kiss you now, it’ll be weird.”

“Why would it be weird to kiss me?”

“Because you keep asking!  You’re just not supposed to ask.  You just do it.  It feels unnatural now.”

“So the next time I want to kiss you I should just walk up and kiss you, unannounced?”

“No,” she paused and thought for a moment, “no.  I don’t know.  Stop being weird.  And annoying.  I’m not kissing you.”

Martin looked at her with a smile and his eyes drifted up from her lips to meet her gaze.

Esme laughed nervously, “and stop staring at me!  You’re being a creep.”

Martin nodded and looked away then said aloud to himself, “asking for a kiss and looking at her equals creep.  Walking up without warning and kissing her is completely normal.  Girls are weird.”

A silence fell over the both of them.  It was a moment that was teetering over two paths.  One end was an awkward, strange and uncomfortable continuation of silence as neither knew what to say.  Esme felt too out of place to give in and admit her shunning of his kiss was silly and Martin wasn’t quite sure if her calling him weird was playful toying or nervous warning.
On the other end, floating up and down as it balanced itself, was one of them giving in and going to the other with a warm embrace.  Martin apologizing for nothing but stating his true intentions of simply wanting to kiss her lips because its his favorite thing to do, or Esme telling him, “just shut up and kiss me already.”

Martin knew the answer to his question, whether it was her lips or any woman’s that he was fascinated with.  The answer was both.  They were a defining feature in his physical attraction to women.  The slope and curve of a woman’s lips drew him in.
But more specifically he wanted Esme’s lips.  They were thin and smooth.  He admired the way they curled when she talked or how they pursed tightly together when she was annoyed with him.  He loved how her favorite color lipstick was ruby red and whenever she wore it they would shine even in the dark, as if his dream were becoming a reality.  Mostly though he wanted her lips because of the way he felt when she kissed him, as if no other woman alive could breathe the life into his heart like she did.

Kiss Me Like You Mean It

Assault me with your lips.  It’s the only way I know how to describe the force I want to feel from you as you kiss me.
An onslaught.
An attack.
A blow of fury.
Ride your forces across my lines and invade every corner of my existence.  Don’t stop until your charge breaks through.  Don’t stop until you’ve crushed me into you.

Kiss me.  Love of god, fucking kiss me.  Bite my lips.  Pull.  Tug as if your rancor’s suffered long enough and you’ve needed to unleash a ripping of flesh as if your fangs cannot be satiated.
The balance between heaven and hell in a kiss is awkward.  To miss someone so much you want to hurt them.  To love them so hard you want to die.  To touch your lips to there’s so intensely that the desire to do them harm is only outweighed by that to heal.

A kiss should kill you both and then breathe life back into your lungs.

The heat should not let up, but only build inside the cauldron.  Friction of your tongue to mine, pressed hard like a fist into a fist.  Both sides unrelenting until your head, or mine, moves from one side to the other.  Wildness takes over.  We glide along together and our tongues dance.  Only the instinct of survival, to breathe, allows us to unlock our spiral.

Panting breaths.
Heaving chests.
Wanton eyes.

The magnitude of our ferocity will spark a fire.  The fire will burn between us only until we’ve extinguished it with our lips.  Nothing else can stop the ache in our bones but each other.

Kiss me and don’t ever stop.
Kiss me like this every time, as if you’ll never kiss me again.
Kiss me as if all your plans are cancelled.
Kiss me as if your eyes only shine against mine.
Kiss me forever and I’ll love you just as long.

 

Those Red Lips

You are made of magic, do you know that?

It’s the only explanation for the power in which I’m held.

Earthly phenomenon cannot do what you do,

and I have never seen lips so deep red in my life.

Blood stained

Wine coated through

Dark cherry sweet

Those red lips,

my god,

those red lips.

Crude Love

I want to suck your face off.  The words aren’t poetic or sweet.  They don’t sing.  When you hear them leave my full lips to your delicate ears you aren’t inclined to tell me you love me or think we have a future together.  All you want to do is bite down on those lips and pull them into your mouth.  Suck the fullness right out and make me yelp in pain as you clench too hard.

Lock my head between your thighs and don’t stop ’til morning.  The words are suggestive and crude.  You know what I want.  You can see it in my eyes.  The fire crackling, nearing explosive.  My only purpose in life at this moment is to transfer this explosion from my lips to your hips.  The eye-rolling rhyme only meant for your knees to squeeze tighter along with your fist in my hair and my face given no room to breathe.

Lets make-out.  Lets rip each others clothes off.  Lets mark each others skin with our teeth and nails.  Lets fuck.

Give me the dripping, messy love that people are afraid to experience.  The kind of love that when you slide your hands in it your face screws up because the feeling is so thick and sticky you don’t think you’ll ever get it out.  Get it on my clothes and in my hair.  I want to feel you under my nails and between my teeth.  I want to know what your neck smells like when you sweat.

I don’t want to love you all the time like strawberries and sweet-scented fields of delicate flowers.  Commercial love doesn’t allow for the things I want to do to you.  Public view cannot handle the contortion of our bodies that run through my mind.  You are my raw intensity.  I am your unfiltered passion.  Lets mix our colors together and start painting.

29 hours away

I’ll never know you.  I’ll never see you.  I’ll never shake your hand or look into your eyes while you look into mine.  It was never going to happen anyway but it was nice to dream on.  I was realistic though and had never even contemplated it.  Us meeting was merely a funny thing to talk about while we were enjoying each others company.

You would place your lips on mine with your arms rested on my shoulders and stretched out straight behind my back.  Your hands dangling in the air while your fingers intertwined like a spider climbing its web.

Smiles didn’t hang around on your face for long.  They were a strand of hair that escaped.  You’d realize the mistake and quickly curl the hair behind your ear and drop your lips to your famous stare.  I could die in that stare.

I’ve never looked at a girl with the kind of mystery that you held while at the same time feeling like I knew what was behind them.  You were always the duck on the pond.  The tip of the iceberg.  You stared so you wouldn’t give anything away but every time you did I knew there was something.

My hands always settled on your hips and moved from there.  Sometimes up your back to pull you close and other times they drifted inside your waistline to feel the skin to sensitive for societies view.  Your teeth on my lip was like dessert before the meal.  It made me so hungry that I’d ask for all three courses at once.

And we’d fuck too.  It would be hard and full of passion.  My waves would crash onto your shore and the water would erode away any resemblance of individuality and we would just be us.  We would be alone against each other and there wasn’t anything else in the world that mattered.  These moments were weaved in and out of our days together while our nights were spent laughing and carrying on like it would never end.

You pulled away.  I don’t blame you for anything else other than this.  All of the explosions and ruination were my fault, but you pulled away.  I know why but I’ll never really know.  We’ll never talk again.  You’ll never answer.  That 29 hours between us will feel like its so much longer than a day.  That day will turn into forever and a memory of someone I loved, and I’m not even sorry I said it.

My Inner Bukowski

You bring out that side of me that isn’t socially acceptable.

Lecherous, licentious and debauched.

It’s always been there but when I watch you dress I think,

tonight you’re a creature that was made to fuck.

Your eyeliner a bullhorn for that fuck me stare.

Perfume exuding your fuck me scent.

You spend an hour perfecting that fuck me hair,

with those fuck me heels I’m sure I won’t relent.

I’d lose my breath between your legs

or your other, higher pair of lips.

Scream for me

let it out and make the windows shake.

When it’s done we’ll lie naked among the sheets.

The breeze cooling our panting chests.

My hand squeezing your naked thigh,

with your leg draped across mine.

We’ll sleep like that and do it again in a few hours,

or maybe we can wait until morning.

But right now you’re teasing my hunger

and my lips need to be fed.

Sex before breakfast

You excite me.  You thrill me.  I can’t stop looking at you from across the table.

Your pale skin framed by your dark mane is like a spell you’ve cast.

I’m under it immediately with no ability to resist.

The way your hair cascades down your neck, its as if darkness is a fog

and its going to swallow you and I both.

Your smoke-white skin countering and refusing to give in.

My eyes following along your shoulder and trying to will away the clothing covering any part.

Some things can’t wait to be acted upon.

When I want to touch you I want to touch you now.

If I want to kiss you my lips cannot cool their burn on their own

Your legs are needed, spread and wrapped around me

ankles hooked and thighs squeezing my hips.

Breakfast at this little diner is going to have to wait

the bathroom is empty.

Not exactly the mile-high club but I’ll take you whenever I can.

Your ass fits on the edge of the sink helped by the squeeze of your legs around my waist.

Wildly kissing with my hands in your hair and your arms around my neck.

Squeeze harder, don’t ever let go.

Dig your nails and your heels into me as we mold our bodies together.

Bite my lips while I find your tongue.

The thrill of hearing and feeling your breath in my ear is enough to electrify me.

I can’t hold back and all you do is whisper my name.

We enjoyed our breakfast eventually.

On the same side of the booth, ankles hooked and faces flushed.

Yet already hungry again.

Your pink painted lips

I could imagine chewing you like a piece of gum.
Popping you into my mouth and gnashing away.
Your sweetness trickling down my throat.
Spreading you across my mouth with my tongue.
Your tough texture needing to be stretched and pulled.
Then balling you in the back of my mouth and chewing again
Repeatedly kneading you until I could push you to my lips
and blow

There are so many ways to write love

I enjoy writing about love and romance.  I like to see how far I can stretch out the feeling of kissing a girl’s lips or what it’s like to stare into her eyes until one of us blinks and turns away.  The feeling of my heart racing because she’s close to me is something I could have an unending supply of words for because if you can’t write about love how can you write about anything?

I could write about her hair.  How I like how it hangs down over her face.  The way my hand feels a need to curl it behind her ear so I can see both ends of her smile.  I could write about the different styles she has it in; straight and sleek, pulled into a cute ponytail, curly, wavy.  There are so many words I could write just about her hair that it would be too long yet not enough.

Or the feeling of my hand underneath her chin, raising it so I can lean down to kiss her lips and leave them there for a while.  There’s the way she walks and how she dresses.  The feeling of her fingers in mine or the sound of her breathing as she’s asleep.  The list of things to write about when you’re thinking of love is endless, that’s why its my favorite subject.  It doesn’t matter when or why, I could write a few lines of a strong feeling of love and enjoy how they string themselves together or how they make me remember.

It’s just usually just a flash of thought that brings it on.  A memory or a desire.  Sometimes its a picture, a word or a phrase.  The yearning of love never dies though.  The hunger for its feeling will always find its way back.