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avrgblkgrl:

The Point At Which You Entered by AvrgBlkGrl

I try to find the point 
At which you entered. 
But, there is no line 
Of demarcation 
For where my body begins 
And where yours ends, 
No great divide 
To direct the flow 
Of water that runs so deep. 
Nature is unprepared for the power 
That swells up within 
And shatters the rock. 
For what seems to be 
A subtle sway, 
A soothing current, 
Forms mountains and valleys, 
Leaving nothing free of its 
Undertow.

You looked into my eyes, 
Knowing my real name 
And then 
Whispered it across the dampness 
Of my skin 
With fingers and lips. 
And when I could no longer stand 
On my own two legs, 
They wrapped around you, 
Drawing you even closer 
Because where skin meets skin 
Is not enough for true lovers.

There is no separation 
Of your spirit from my soul, 
No language 
For the creation of an image 
Of where 
You entered me. 
No mirror could justly reflect 
The heat of the ingress, 
Nor can the feel of your slow descent, 
That perfected stroke of progress 
As you stretched me open,
Be captured.
My body was not invaded, 
It was recreated.

And now, 
We are not simply adjacent, 
You and I have merged, 
Liquefied by our own heat, 
Entwined and moving as one 
Heartbeat 
—Expanding and releasing 
Into each other 
Until 
The point at which you entered 
No longer exists. 
We lie together 
As one, 
A new life 
In this new world 
Of our own creation.

***

©Regina Moore (AvrgBlkGrl), 2014.

A friend sent me this and said that this reminded her of me teaching.

The thing is, most of the time, this is how I feel when I’m teaching, when my mind is clear and every thing just flows. The students’ eyes are all on me and they are filled with understanding. I can see their minds working. When it’s over, I’m like, “Yeah, I fucking claimed that lecture hall!”

I feel safe to say that here. To her, I just responded: Ah really, you think so. I wish.

~ ABG

eroticawithyou:

THINK…on These THINGS…

amospoe:

“What do you think an artist is? An imbecile who only has eyes, if he is a painter, or ears if he is a musician, or a lyre in every chamber of his heart if he is a poet, or even, if he is a boxer, just his muscles? Far from it: at the same time he is also a political being, constantly aware of the heartbreaking, passionate, or delightful things that happen in the world, shaping himself completely in their image. How could it be possible to feel no interest in other people, and with a cool indifference to detach yourself from the very life which they bring to you so abundantly? No, painting is not done to decorate apartments. It is an instrument of war.” 
― Pablo Picasso

(portrait by richard avedon)

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