Moroccan Cotton

Sipping coffee, my velvet underdog, how I am bewitched in the waves to which you soothe your soil.

Hello, if you’re new here: I am a creator of many forms living abroad in Italy and dreaming, scheming and loving and grateful for your readership. Ciao.

Excerpts from my third book // A space of sensual freedom. Rebirth is my form of devotion.

Moroccan Cotton | 1.24.26

An embryo curled into his side, draped over Moroccan cotton, the floor couch of my insistence, and I, his princess, he always listens. The peach fuzz of my face tracing the conch shell into the crystals of my inner ear, swallowing your heart beating and the other tuned into the void of the classics we enjoy. He believes in the power of feeling beyond words, orchestrated by the late greats. A rotation from Debussy to metal, sometimes I pour honey from a well of many decades. Sipping coffee, my velvet underdog, how I am bewitched in the waves to which you soothe your soil. How could a moment be perpetually infinite? Lying in stillness, that of a lake. A single cherry blossom landing on his surface ripples into forever. I am your swan, Le Cynge as my mother calls unto me her swan child, her days are my nights, yet you are a power that could pull me from everything I’ve ever known and so it is you that I chose. Pressing your little kiss upon my head, wishing us life until death, and even after, I’ll play your cynge songs as they are alive in me. Giving you head to Vivaldi. He says it feels too good, with a mouthful, in correction, a moment away, wiping saliva, don’t limit your pleasure, I say, as a violin spins, he begins to stand, with work to do. I follow suite into our kitchenette and him to his new desk. Burying long finger bones into soil as darling seedlings have delighted in the sun. Potting them in red with long nails like shovels, watching after their crests brown from ebony. Thinking of Virginia Woolf’s Waves, and the way she wrote to a rhythm, a never-ending deciphering between prose and poem. Between heaven and earth. Heaven is Hers and earth is His. A sensuality in between interlaced fingers and Claire De Lune. I once thought I’d never belong to anyone, and now I long to be in his ribcage and wear his name.

First Poetry Book: California Psalms on Highway 111 | create with me here | most popular poem here: A well fked woman

xx, MW