To cry, a needle an eye.
To love, to cry.

Sex: is to madness
as:
Love: is to pain.

Somewhere there is a perfect mate for all of us, but non-idealistically, that perfect mate may be either dead or halfway around the world. Bleak? Honest.

One more kiss to my lover of yore is a craving I stupidly have, secretly too.
I cannot tell a soul I know how I feel about the topic, as they have forbidden it.  No more touches, caresses or embraces.  It is over and supposedly done with.  In April, he and I were here too, but by summer we had returned to almost better.  It is doubtful that he will ever change his mind or heart, and ridiculous that I should try to do this messy business over again too.

But maybe he was never the man for me.  Maybe he was the worst thing I could have ever involved myself in.  Probably, but there are all the good memories too.  All the love I felt, sadly, I ponder if he ever loved me back.  Again, doubtful.  But he did admit to me that he did a lot of the hurtful stuff to me because he was hurting.  Not a good enough excuse mind you, but an excuse none-the-less.  I will pray tonight that I will find the right one for me, so that I can not worry about this empty and alone feeling ever again... even if they say it only comes when you are not looking.

The sex was never as good between us, as it was when we had broken up and were not officially back together.  It was angry, full of passion, and on my end, for the first time with him, or any mate, it was full of love too.

The somber samba, this is the sad dance it used to be like when we had sex, and then the Terrorist Tango, thrust and meat and flame, these are the steps of the dance that we until recently were taking to mambo.  I miss him, but shouldn't, I love him, he wouldn't.