Welcome to my personal archive of sensual, intimate, love poetry. Here you'll find writings inspired by my personal experiences such as love, nature, naturism, and the quiet moments in between. Please choose your preferred way to browse the collection below.
The Touch I Can Never See.mp4The Touch I Can Never See
We slip from our cars, a silent scene,
and I see her—the creature I crave.
In a tight, short, black skirt, lean and clean,
she bends clutching her purse, a shadowed wave.
Her curves whisper beneath taut seams,
a silent call my eyes can’t refuse.
From ankle to chest, a waking dream,
lost in the lines I’m hungry to lose.
A breeze stirs softly, sweet as a sigh,
lifting my dress to reveal bare thigh.
The slit, too high for daylight’s grace,
exposes my skin, my secret place.
I shift, I sway—a wordless plea,
hoping she sees, hoping she feels like me.
Our heels tap time, a rhythm shared,
toward the steel tower where we disappear.
Her scent—lavender, earth, fresh rain—
fills my lungs, a soft, sharp pain.
Lush dark wet red lips, a Cabernet wine,
match her fiery hair, almost divine.
At the elevator, I hold back, let her pass,
and she slips to the wall, against the glass.
I step in close, her warmth aligned,
my shoulders brush hers, a pulse I find.
Her firm chest pierces my silk, heat alive beneath,
a silent pulse, a bittersweet wreath.
In mirrored walls, our glances catch,
a chase of shadows we barely match.
Each look a spark, a forbidden flame,
a touch reflected, wet lips without name.
Our breath held tight, a stolen light,
heartbeats quickening out of sight.
The car begins; I graze her hand,
our fingers tremble, a silent demand.
Through sheer white silk blouse, my desires unveiled,
her eyes linger where warmth exhaled.
A sigh escapes, her fingers slide,
a fire unspoken we cannot hide.
Silence. The doors sigh open, she's gone, a trace—
cold stale air rushes in, fills her empty place.
Tears prick my eyes, the sharp, sweet sting
of a shadowed dream that can’t take wing.
Tomorrow awaits, another city, another stage,
but her touch remains, a ghost on the page—
a nameless memory, forever replayed.
