Second Meditation

a new year renders the old ashen. memories and nostalgia are locked in monochromes and for that all the more eloquent and poetic. the last two months were exhausting to say the least. post-coital days that unwound in nicotine and eeked out in the most painful seconds. i had my share of beauty but they didn't always take the form i wanted.

Tommy and his near-anorexia; feline grace and perfection he purrs draping over furniture. so beautiful; lengthy strips of hard stretched muscle in his arms and neck cords to firmly chiselled visage, yet he remains pale and breath-takingly fragile. he is tea. clear and clean with a tingling aftertaste. he is lightness; I lean against him to stop him from going. when he goes he will be a ghost, a whisper and the lingering scent of Giorgio Armani. (day i left him he dressed in linen khaki, an image born of and fading into translucence if not for the presence of a singular crimson slit along the alabaster (curtsies to noir) of his arm. the red stain against his fairness made his skin look so stretched out and breakable, so aristocratic. my breath caught in my throat - the sensuality and perversity of its provocativeness.)

Matthew is the dog, irrepressible charm and rowdy arrogance, he marks his territory. beauty is his burmese torso that feels like porcelain (it makes me ashamed of my seemingly rough fingers; when they seek to caress against procelain they appear to violate), crystallised hard by hours of tough physical work, the beautiful dip of his spine, blue-lit by moonlight. he is black coffee. full-bodied he hits you full in the mouth immediately. he is heaviness; he traps me with his body. uncountable twilights i lay entranced in his resonance and think, this must be it - true beauty caught in a moment which i try feebly to etch onto my mind - but you surpass yourself with every breath, your unfrozen loveliness distilling itself over second by second, maturing like fine wine as fine men should. his voice is love songs unwritten. when he leaves he will be a shadow, an echo and a heady taste before dawn. (and my mind is in a whirl; i think i love him still.)

and then there was pj, of the v-shaped well-tanned body that is one exquisite curve continuing down his briefs unbroken. players, both, so politics. before each others' seduction we clutch wisps of ourselves selfishly for we fear to give, as if in giving, one loses. this is how we grapple to own every orgasm, the upper hand over every argument and to be the first to relinquish. permanent fling, ironically my sole gravity.

also kamal, apple of the zoukettes' eyes, my foray into the underbelly of society. lol.

dalliances aside, coquette bitch as well. his is a model's body just waiting to happen. his gym visits are irregular but you can feel the muscles that are taking shape in his arms and his broad shoulders. army should bloom him good and proper.

so sue me phobes. strip love off its constructed layers - romance fidelity monogamy words commitment marriage clingyness gender infatuation - and you are left with lust; there is lust in love and love in lust. lust does not undermine love. Love is fundamentally an attraction to beauty, the primordial human gravitation to the sublime. Beauty itself is subjective, and beyond that, personal – it is relieved of the need to be justified to anything else but your own soul.