So happy to release all the poetry from all three eras into this one book. Thank you to all the editing team that have been working on the book relentlessly since the beginning of this year.
Beg to be Forgiven is now available! https://t.co/vTxImYPuTi
This is a tidal, elemental love— that which doesn’t knock politely on your bones but rather floods inside them and changes the shape of your soul. It almost feels primal, this desire to touch him out of a love so consuming that it aches.
Letters to N. Visser
He loathed feelings. I saw myself in him. Except that he was disillusioned and I was still keeping blind faith. If I am the fire that burns, he's the ashes that I too will inevitably end up becoming.
From Maximus of Mine
Fate hasn't given any free will to either of us. Born enslaved, we, a pebble, forgotten if lost, in an ocean so vast. I wish we could get lost, maybe when we are in the heat of abandonment, maybe then we could be free, and die as a flitter in sky rather than a slow, silent cry
a strange redness, almost as if it had brushed against a warm, damp cloud. He was warm, moist and life-giving. All engulfing, ever-present and ever-approaching. His long, brown mane stopped shortly at his neck, where his hair gracefully turned golden as it touched his bare skin.
Dampness. A Mediterranean dampness. That's what he was. Rich in colour, life and mind. He was well-read, thus arrogant. Or perhaps he was arrogant because he wasn't well-read at all. Red at the heels, white on the nose, every protrusion, every edge of his body was smoothened by
"I knew not loving has such rules,"
"But it does, my love,"
"Then, it's not love. Because everyone loves differently. That's the beauty of it, and that is what makes it so hard to define, so hard to understand,"
#DMLD2
I thought him to be unrefined, but he is gentlemanly, and possesses, what most don't-A rich heart. And I wonder how wonderful it must be to be loved by him, to have him all to oneself, even if he is cold as ice, I would bravely be his, if he would let me.