Posts tagged love

Let’s face it, being in a relationship has its ups and downs. There are times when you could easily push your partner into a canal and stroll away happily whistling…

The moment is washed away in the gust of tears that pour like putrid water; caught somewhere between the eyes of love and the cold grip of reality, his soul burns as life casts its long forlorn shadow…

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Behind his eyes lay memories of paths he has trodden only to discover the autumn leaves blowing in the midst of a winters darkness….

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My mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;
Coral is far more red than her lips’ red;
If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;
If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.
I have seen roses damasked, red and white,
But no such roses see I in her cheeks;
And in some perfumes is there more delight
Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
I love to hear her speak, yet well I know
That music hath a far more pleasing sound;
I grant I never saw a goddess go;
My mistress when she walks treads on the ground.
And yet, by heaven, I think my love as rare
As any she belied with false compare.
William Shakespeare

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She’s the sheet music, chords and all,
Something like the sweet verse that takes us home.
Ashley Escobar

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Too (by Beth Moore)

We wereMuch too youngMuch too selfishMuch too blindTo make it
Much too woundedMuch too frightenedMuch too hurtTo take it
Too much we saidWhen love seemed deadTo go onAnd forget
Too little learnedFrom anger burnedToo muchWe both regret
Yet there’s beenToo much goodToo much loveFor usTo walk away
Too much caringToo much sharingFor usNot to stay
Too much harmTo children’s charmsTo tear our home apart
Too much timeFor nursery rhymesTo give away our hearts
Too much we’ve sharedWith no one elseTo go on and forget
Too many yearsof drying tearsTo do what we’d regret
Too many laughs whenthinking backRemind me what is trueI find that I still love youAnd I think you love me,Too.

Too (by Beth Moore)

We were
Much too young
Much too selfish
Much too blind
To make it

Much too wounded
Much too frightened
Much too hurt
To take it

Too much we said
When love seemed dead
To go on
And forget

Too little learned
From anger burned
Too much
We both regret

Yet there’s been
Too much good
Too much love
For us
To walk away

Too much caring
Too much sharing
For us
Not to stay

Too much harm
To children’s charms
To tear our home apart

Too much time
For nursery rhymes
To give away our hearts

Too much we’ve shared
With no one else
To go on and forget

Too many years
of drying tears
To do what we’d regret

Too many laughs when
thinking back
Remind me what is true
I find that I still love you
And I think you love me,
Too.

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Tis beauty truly blent, whose red and white
Nature’s own sweet and cunning hand laid on:
Lady, you are the cruell’st she alive
If you will lead these graces to the grave
And leave the world no copy
Twelfth Night. Act 1 scene 5

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The Plastic World: The Game of Love, Sex and Destruction

The liquor comes in many different forms and colours. It is poured into glasses that glimmer like pure diamonds on a sunlit beach. The smiles are wide, the laughter an out pouring of glee, glamour and gory glory. Eyes batter back and forth, transfixed on the wonders of it all. Dresses are short, thigh length, and the thighs themselves are ravaged by sweat, steam and sex. Breasts are held hostage in bras. Amongst it all the dice is constantly rolled and the game commences; love, sex, alcohol, drugs, or all the above?

A kiss is shared and tongues linger. That is always how it begins. When lost in music and the subtle highs of bodies touching, a kiss completes the deal. Lips caress like pillows on satin sheets. The taste of Moet, tinged by the Jack Daniels and Coke she had before she left home. Liquid courage. There is no space for the exchange of words, why waste our tongues exchanging lies when in both of our eyes the truth reveals itself; unadulterated lust ignited by uncontrolled passion.

More liquor is shared, this time Alize. Its colours allow our subterfuge a hint of beauty. Now we dance, a surreal dance, a dance that confuses both our senses until all we sense is each others heartbeats. And her heart beats slow. We go a little further, our bodies close enough to exchange skin, I think her thoughts as her hair engulfs my face, summerfruits, the smell of her shampoo.

The music stops and the pillows call. Pure white sheets like alpine snow. We lay down and drift the night away in our concoction.

The sun rises welcoming reality into our dream. Her face is now different. Her maquillage now gone, her eyes are consumed with disgrace. She avoids eye contact, comforting herself with the warmth of the paintings on the wall. Silence is now the music of choice. The sweat is replaced by the warm water of the shower as last nights escapades are scrubbed away.

I find myself in the kitchen, preparing something to feed the tension, allow it some respite. The sound of the water now since gone, her clothes are no longer on the floor. Instead a note awaits my arrival, a note that simply reads “thanks”.

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