#ella.g

"Surging Tides"

I can’t sleep. I can’t let go.

It’s something the ocean does—

something beyond the horizon

or buried in the sand,

something deeply wet,

insistent, aching and alive.

The sea’s slow undulation

stirs a hunger in me,

salt on the wind—raw, electric.

Night exhales the scent of us: impossible to forget.

And here I am, restless, writhing,

adrift in the insatiable dark,

enduring the night’s ticking torment.

I’m soaked in the memory of us—

hours pulsing with longing,

helpless against the tide

of desire surging within me,

your name breaking on my lips,

a storm I cannot escape.

~ Ella.G

I crave your pen on my body

the smooth and the long strokes.

The ones when you press

the tip into my flesh

and the ink pools

Your words become an ache

A longing carved into my skin,

a story only we could ever read.

*****************HER*****************

The most intoxicating scent is that of your woman. It lingers in the air, soft and wild all at once. A howl folded into jasmine, a secret blooming in warm vanilla and rain.

It lives in her neck, in the spaces between words, in the curve of her laughter where eternity lives.

The universe sighs, drunk on her untamed essence every moment aches to cradle her quiet storm.

The onslaught of this silent tempest when it wraps around your chest

and you breathe it in, it’s as if the world whispers....Yesssss. This—stay.

It drowns you, this scent that isn’t perfume, isn’t flowers, isn’t sun-warmed earth but the very essence of her, moving through the room, staying long after she's gone.

" A Concerto for Two "

Her voice whispers a dark, secret need.His breath matches the pulse of her desire. Hands grasp sheets as symphonies fire. Heartbeats sync to a rhythm —a pulsating metronome. Lips parted, speaking truth in silence, where boundaries are swallowed by want.

Their love a harmonious concerto. He plays her fine instrument — a violin in tune, each touch a note drawn from her ribs, trembling chords under his fingers. In harmony, she sings to him her soprano ballad, he hums lowly his silent ache, moans crescendo, a chorus released~

.

.

Paramours

Slipping beneath the surface of the day's facade,seeking solace of life's relent,

we yearn to be more than life allows—

Casting aside the grayscale threads of our daily fabric and seizing the gossamer moments as they flutter.

In the sacred space of our own design, we find our haven, locked in the arms of our beloved, our inamorata.

Unbound by life's unyielding frame. We free ourselves of tangled limbs and whispered rhyme.

Cradled in these covert hours,

we find the essence of our existence magnified amidst the sharpness of life,

softened by love's own bloom.

Here, within the garden of tender caresses,

hearts surrender and love's reciprocity is a sacred exchange.

We give, unguarded, and receive, with fervor.

He is her poet.

His voice lingers like smoke caressing the quiet spaces between her breaths, She folds his whispers like love letters and presses them into the fragile creases of her skin like wildflowers between the pages of their love story. He lines his mind with the images she gifts.

Immersed in memory of her fragrance, he writes of her scent as if it blooms from his very veins, and she, wrapped in his warmth, unfolds like the dawn, a calm light, soft and inviting.

He wraps his thoughts in the quiet moments she leaves behind, a silhouette he traces, again and again. His pen aching to capture the curveof her absence, the ink pools in quiet surrender, her name whispered between the quiet spaces.

She is his poetry.