My Poly Valentine

A little over a year ago I realised that for the first time in my life I was going to be sending two Valentine’s cards.

Perhaps, I mused, I should write a poem to convey my love to both Perrin and Mat. I could, of course, have written one poem and given it to both of them but that would have seemed like short-changing them and anyway they are very different people. So, two poems were required but I wanted to convey that my love is whole and encompasses them both.
At this point I realised I wanted to write two poems that could be combined into one by changing only punctuation and homophones.

It has taken me this long (yes more than a year) to come up with such a poem and I freely admit that it’s dreadful. I only hope both men will take the effort it required as evidence of my love for them both.

My dearest love, be thou my valentine.
Be my new day, my gentle night,
My morning star you make life shine,
You fill my heart with love so bright.

I pledge my love with this short verse,
And evermore let love be true.
Know valentine and always trust,
These words of mine “I love you two”.

A Twist Of Memory

I need to hurt him.
I twist the rope through my fingers and remember…

His body stretched out,
Hands pressed against the wall,
Naked, vulnerable and strong.

Rope looped and twisted,
Strands rough against my palm,
Each arc swinging freely.

Each stroke a caress,
Leaving its criss cross mark,
His shoulders signed with a kiss.

He takes each stroke,
But it’s not enough for him,
It’s not enough for me.

I need him to scream.
To see his body tense
and yet still hold his place.

I need him to take my pain,
To set it free
And cry his love for me.

I need to hurt him…
I twist the rope through my fingers and remember.

He Told Me

Because there is nothing wrong with being a slut.

He told me I was a slut and he sounded surprised.
He told me I was a slut, he who knows me so well,
But he sounded surprised.

He who knew how I desired him;
Knew how lust burned in my veins.
He who could have had me then.

With less than a breath he could have had me sucking his cock;
My lips wrapped round it, my throat full.

In a heartbeat he could have been inside my cunt;
Sliding into my dampness and filling me with his length.

In a moment he could have turned me over and taken my ass;
Stretching me with his hardness, hearing me moan.

He could have had me but he resisted.
Chose not to take what I was offering so openly.
But he told me I was a slut.

He was so right.

These Are My Love Letters

Because who writes these things on paper and puts them in the post anymore?

These are my love letters,
These words captured here in electronic stasis,
Syllables pinned helplessly to the page.
These very public declarations of emotion.

These are my love letters,
These dreams spelled out for you to enjoy.
Each twisted fantasy inspiring your lust and imagination.
These stories crafted from desire and longing.

These are my love letters,
These remembrances of passionate moments shared,
Of connections forged through pain and pleasure,
Of fantasies fulfilled in flesh.

These are my love letters,
The impassioned yearnings of my heart,
Seeking to be loved and understood,
Sharing my innermost thoughts with strangers.

These are my love letters.

These are my love letters to you.

Hunger

We approach each other cautiously.
Our words tempting. Our actions teasing.
Circling our desire like two hyenas circling a kill.
Slowly challenging, a dance of words and glances,
Touches that hint at lust.

Delaying the inevitable.
Building the tension.
Circling in the dust.

Then in a moment, one word, one touch, and our restraint is gone.
We move in to tear at the flesh of our desire,
To bloody our jaws with it, to lose ourselves in lust.

Animals unleashed, uncontrolled, unstoppable.
A force of nature we cannot stand against.
We sate ourselves on pleasure, leaving destruction in our wake,
Devastation in the dust.

At last we rest, gorged and satisfied,
Until the hunger rises within us once more.
As we both know it must.

The Prisoner

Not my best writing, but an idea which will not be silenced.

The Prisoner

Naked, he huddles in his cell
Lost in the dark.
Tortured by demons only he can see.

She enfolds her arms around him
Protecting him from harm.

Sightless, he strikes out in defence
Seeking to hurt.
Torment is all he feels, he senses only pain.
Held, yet he can not feel her touch
She clings to him tightly.

His fingers clawing at her face,
Drawing her blood.
She raises no hand to wipe it away,
She does not loosen her embrace,
Holding him till dawn.

The light streams weakly through the bars,
He lifts his head,
He sees her face, their eyes meeting,
The vigil over, love rejoicing
He knows her touch at last.