By Damian Bloodstone,
A voice that sounds of heaven to the ear,
The voice that makes the soul resonate,
A voice that is so beautiful that only angels could match,
A voice that goes silent and yet silently begs.
The eyes that lock in a single stare.
Eyes that melt the walls and build the ember within.
The stare where everything else ceases to exist.
The eyes that meet and two souls are only seen by each other.
A touch that sparks an ember,
A gentleness that begets the primal,
A touch so innocent that tears might come,
A touch so enlightening that darkness fades.
A form that moves to say more than words can,
A soul’s light, radiant and bright in a single form,
A form of beauty and of art,
A form in the dark brought to the light.
A beckoning that goes unsaid,
A drive that is never openly shown,
A primal force and emotion,
That quickly throws all else away.
A touch that becomes more,
A caress that is felt to the core of one’s being,
A gentle embrace that makes all things cease,
The primal emotions and movements taking hold.
The soft moan, the quick sigh,
the sudden gasp, the soft whimper,
the half-done words, the muted moan,
the held breath, the soft cry,
the mingled scents of two to one.
The softness of the lines,
the smoothness of the skin,
the warmth of the soul,
the primal let lose to play.
The touch of the lips,
the softness of the skin,
the rush of the blood to make fire,
the feeling of the tenderness of the little parts.
The feeling of change,
the swell of the graceful body,
the wondrous softness of the one then two,
the little bumps that tickle the tongue,
the one point of each that stokes the fire within.
The rise and falls of the swells,
the valley that softly speaks of parting,
the softness yet lower,
the place which goes in nor out,
where muscles surround and a gem can be found,
the sudden moan as the warmth is touched.
The warmth turns to fire,
the scent turns to odd sweetness,
the softest down unmatched,
the velvet forest that leads to a flower on fire.
The flower opens slowly,
the beauty of nature unmatched,
the softest of petals,
the most sensitive of places,
the moans and cries beckon more,
as Primal is ignited.
The fire becomes blaze,
the opening rimmed,
the tunnel gently explored,
the warm, wetness yet unsatisfied.
The eyes once more meet,
the stem meets flower,
the sounds of the brief silence,
the flower and stem unite.
The sudden cry,
the soft moans now louder,
the quick sigh unending,
the whimper turned to the moan,
the words need not said,
the moans and sounds of the primal.
The sighs turned to cries,
the moans turned to breaths held,
The sudden gasp of life united,
the explosion of the lower heart,
the warmth of the stem’s and flower’s release,
the sudden quite in the garden.
The cries turns to sweet sighs,
the eyes united once more,
the touch felt as if almost pain,
the blaze slows to fire.
The words unsaid yet felt,
the whimper and moan,
the held breath, soft moan,
the flower and stem united no more.
The soft caresses of tenderness,
the mingled scents of flower and stem,
the sweet scent of the two being one,
the memory that is always remembered by the Primal.
The primal yet never dies,
the embers always lit,
the flower waiting to blossom,
the stem waiting to grow to meet,
The roots that lay of each in the heart.
The eyes that beckon,
the eyes that want,
the eyes that wish for touch,
the eyes that cry for love.
The sweet memories of togetherness
the tenderness, the warmth,
the caring, the compassion,
ignited by the primal fires
in souls’ lives long ago united.