sex is no longer sex... it's the hardest thing to explain to anyone. since his loving embrace. especially the very first one... how can i define sex in the way i thought of even two months ago? this beauty, consummate passion, clumsy grace. The meaning of it so starkly obvious. How could i think of sex then anything else but with him? but with the compelete shiver of feeling divinely touched.


love has me thinking of stargazing.....

"The Stars" William Wordsworth
The stars are mansions built by Nature's hand,
And, haply, there the spirits of the blest Dwell,
clothed in radiance, their immortal vest;
Huge Ocean shows, within his yellow strand,
A habitation marvellously planned,
For life to occupy in love and rest;
All that we see--is dome, or vault, or nest,
Or fortress, reared at Nature's sage command.
Glad thought for every season!
but the Spring Gave it while cares were weighing on my heart,
'Mid song of birds, and insects murmuring;
And while the youthful year's prolific art--
Of bud, leaf, blade, and flower--was fashioning
Abodes where self-disturbance hath no part.

"Are We Watching the Same Star?" William Mae
I'm looking at this star tonight,
Wishing wishes would come true.
I wonder where I stand and look
If you see the same star too.
Does the darkness overwhelm you,
Where you stand and look tonight?
Do you see the star I’m watching?
Could we both stand in it's light?
Tonight although there's miles between us,
Perhaps our souls will somehow meet.
At the point this star begins,
Our hearts will find their beat.
Do you feel the need for someone,
To fulfill your empty life?
I'm wishing for the same thing,
As I watch this star tonight.
This gentle breeze I'm feeling,
Calms my heart of sorrow.
I'm wondering will it find you,
And soothe your heart tomorrow.
A hopeless born romantic,
Ever searching for true love.
Wishing wishes in the darkness
To this star that hangs above.

"Little Star" James Mills
A zillion miles of night caress the little star.
One amongst countless it shines, knowing only itself, bravely blazing.
For it knows no other way.
A zillion years of light burst from the little star.
Wished upon, sung to, followed, all its' shining life.
Little star. Little star.
Probing eyes lit on it; photographed and spectroscoped it.
Analyzed; they deemed it -ordinary, tagged it with a strange, forgettable name. Pronounced it long ago Dead.
Long ago dead, they said.
The little star, dead.
Light in the night, bright dreamy light, white and a little blurred.
Dead? Absurd.
Something in us may have died.
But not our little star.