The mind, a dormant stone

Always.

Once upon a time,I lost my love to suicide. On his way from this world, he made a point to stop by my window, 27 stories hoisted He shook me by the shoulders telling me not to worry. He said that he was free, at peace; He always wanted to be part of a world where artists could roam free, a streak of beauty whipping around the air, Molecules reforming around his ghostly shape, transparency reflecting what I wanted to see. I remember the first nights I spent alone, in my own house, Room candles flickering, higher and higher, crackling like a campfire on my bedside. Myra held me, feared the sounds I would interpret, disguises in the shadows. His face The night after, a Thursday, pulled me out of a 3 o'clock slumber Edging for familiar A voicetuggingatmyhair "Jessica, where am I?" "Justin, you died." You ended it all When you were alone Eyes wide Fingers determined Rolling a checklist for suicide. How'd you think I would understand it? Lo...

You either make your own world, or lie in a bed in theirs. ~that's me.

Beautiful poised lips hold steady my heart in the still of his smoke   Thudding in terror, a fright of smile. ~ Jessica M. Wilson

My hand traces the sky with diamond libido in my penniless pocket.  ~Jessica M. Wilson visit my twitter: www.twitter.com/europawynd

...That's what I get when too many mouths hear too many calls and my car butts in [like usual] and takes me out of town to see what other people my age are doing when their moon shines, dirtied with stars, and sweat hits their brows under all the passions of the sky. Provoking, as i rub salts into my thighs bleed another lullaby while i'm holding hands -- myself -- under myself -- rocking rubbing until persuasion pulls my attention towards more hands new mouths, to jump aerobics with, lunging dollars forward burning fuels without backup, just desire -- a libertine wet distracted to see what flexibility my body holds, a living.

Sex turning around thighs, grabbing at need that devours. Fluids dissolve into each other; grabbing at hairs and dust, nestled into cracks of skin. I roll on my carpet, playing by hand, whisper into the pores, "i wish you were here. i wish you were mine." Does anyone really hear wet, parted lips speak? No one's knocking. I've spent years for someone to come inside. ~Jessica M. Wilson

Your friendship has made me so wet, panting for more touches, more strokes of hair...reality pinching me on the swollen buds of my nipples. Fantasy bleeds my heart as I trace imaginary lines around your lips, how it dives down so well above your mouth, tiny hairs brush over your laughter. Always what I cannot have. Unpleasant aftertaste in that. Maybe I shall return to Jacob, where I could have a new sordid affair in a movie theater made silent by my moans? I am a whore-nun, paradox of womanhood. You may chastise me as I flog. This type of guilt gets me off. ~ Jessica M. Wilson

How a man transforms his bowed head into a wondrous halo of figurative light. His turbulence keeps his soul unkempt  wild, ravished, he must visit women, tell stories, throw stones into the ocean to feel his saga. A story unique to only his bluest eye, telling the years on his face, his smile creases with delight when he knows a woman who'll serve him -- knees bent, ankles wrapped, her hair is the chalice that holds his cock, her teeth grind down on his muscle, tearing her throat to new extremes. He is loved and felt inside, the way the shackles break from his fists to know embrace under tight crimson skin. Nipples throw their way into his mouth; he is close to her. Nudging with eyelids for more milk inside. Make him feel nestled. Cradled down into the lap of light, how life tunnels through seed and womb. Underneath he finds his seeds...licks them and swallows. He's whole now. Beauty full. ~Jessica M. Wilson