You keep telling me how bad it is. It's like being in that "toilet bowl" water-slide—the one we went to in February, where we had such a good time, but things were already strained, me being cautious and restrained and insecure, you being attractive and attracted, riding a high not-quite-faded both of us wanting more and more and more—only without lights or handles and I've nearly been thrown out more than once, to bump and brace against walls slick and unforgiving, sluicing and spiraling down to an unknown end.
But then, for a moment, the light in Your eyes will change, and You will say You need me, to be brave and bear all, even braver to bare all, and this is what I desire, too. To stand proud and unashamed, wanted and wanting, both of us worshipping through the other, feasting and feeding and feeling united with the outer other inner lover, making magic together. That is what I miss, the hard-won belief, that I was magical, too, that all my life, it was in there, thrumming just below, wanting only the right catalyst to send forth the surge, in ecstasy, rapture, exaltation in life itself, in love at last, flying astride, higher than any pill, powder or potion can imitate.
So, I find myself , yes, wistful, and wantful, and aching to make love to You, through You, to me, to delight in the scents and sounds we craft from one another. To say to You, and even more to myself: Moya droga, ja cie kocham. Listen
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