She Comes First.

And whilst our souls negotiate there,
We like sepulchral statues lay;
All day, the same our postures were,
And we said nothing, all day.
They knew not which soul spake,
Because both meant, both spake the same-
Might thence a new concoction take
And part far purer than they came?
                                                         - John Donne

Have you ever sensed the slow burn of a woman turn to ardor, the sweetness of her surrendered body wanting to completely let go, be closer to you, be pleasured and protected by you? A woman on the verge of eruption with a libido of magma yet the tenderness of an angel? Nothing could be obscene in such a love. Everything that occurs in between becomes a sacrament.

Such a moment may never come: you may not fall in love or you may not wish to give your whole life to anyone and one day realize that you’re no longer young and you never found a choir of cupids with lyres, or a bed of white roses leading from the altar. The only revenge left for you then would be to steal from life the pleasure of firm and passionate flesh - a pleasure that evaporates faster than good intentions and is the nearest thing to heaven you find in this world, where everything decays, beginning with beauty and ending with memory.

But somebody on duty up in heaven grants you a lucky break and as you reach the marriage bed pure of heart and loins, awaiting the moment when true love will lead you to the discovery of ecstasy of body and soul, and blessed by the Holy Spirit, have children who bear your family name and eyes of that saintly woman: a shining example of virtue and modesty in whose company you will enter the doors of heaven under the benevolent gaze of the Baby Jesus...

Suffering find peace in me, so much to kiss and tell,

So little peace before me, so little peace in hell.

I saw her as thine savior, but I never could decide,

Was my bleeding without or I was scratched inside.