The Next Best Thing

I feel the wind flick my hair across my cheek
In place of your fingertips, sliding it back in its place

Instead of your soft lips pressed against mine,
I feel the firm press of glass that wraps around my wine

Your sultry whispers hardly replaced
by the intoxicating songs of summer birds
And the rolls of thunder in lieu of your gorgeous laughter

I inhale deeply the earthy scent of coming rain
And imagine you again taking my breath away

I imagine your feet against mine, legs intertwined,
As I press my body against the earth to feel all of its strength

Craving your hands making lazy turns across my curves-
I settle for the breeze dancing slowly down my spine
The rain falling on me like the kisses you sprinkled over my skin

Unable to make love with you
I make love to my whole world instead

A far cry second
Next best thing



To say a woman has “given it up” is to perpetuate the beliefs that 1) a woman’s sexuality is the most valuable thing she offers and that 2) once her guard of this asset is relinquished, her sexual availability is, from that point forward, handed over.

This false defense/ threat paradigm complicates honest and respectful connection and lays a dangerous, quiet foundation of ownership.


I lay here, naked
my hair falling wet around my bare shoulders
still, quiet, cooling
fading passion softly glowing on my skin
still damp from the shower and cool from the breeze

jade_BW_peacesetting all the world right

Ah, but I could lay here, just like this, forever
empowered, seduced, relaxed
the subtle memory of sex hanging in the air
and my body completely at peace

ignoring the world’s melting away
and imagining the warm fingertips of a lover
tracing the paths of passion along my flesh
softly tugging my ear with his teeth
and brushing his soft lips across my still ragged breath
gathering the gutteral truths
that only come in moments like this


A vision built of sugar
And dressed with candy flowers
A lost girl’s calavera
Tooth achingly passionate and full of wonder
Drawing me to your alter for a closer look

Letter by sculpted letter, a digital song
Each word, a rosette of heart flutter cream
Each turn of phrase more mouthwatering and illusory than the last
But treasured and stored for later

Each bite
convinced me and its maker both
Of beautiful promises strung together like crafted candy pearls

Offered meal after empty meal
pink and white and perfectly dressed

Lips glued shut in protest
Of one more hollow spoonful
I- parched and disenchanted-

Crave nothing more than the earthy, meaty flavors
Of something tangible and toothsome