Age of Grace

Silver hair brushed back gracefully
Elegance of a certain age
The radiance of long distinguished beauty
She knows intimacy intimately

There is potency in her ecstasy 
In six inch heels she’s extremely sexy
Confident in her femininity 
Many times her heart has been broken
Still she loves profoundly deeply 
She is a graceful woman
She’s a woman in all her glory


Wailing utterances pierce the red twilight sky that cause reverberations in the atmosphere and angels to cry. Holding a wooden rosary, a wise and beautiful lady named Constancia once told me, Victor, in life you will face adversity, but you are the son of a mother whose fierce spirit was born of me. Without fear, boldly take hold of your destiny.

Size 7

Size seven heaven grace petite feet — through an opening newly pedicured toes peep. Six inch heels give the beauty of feminine subtly the perfect arch. In pointed toe stilettos through hellfire a woman could walk. A cocktail dress and flats do not go together like oil and water — after an invite to a New York City rooftop party, a trip to Nine West is always in order, or Saks Fifth Avenue for even more desired attire. Over form-fitting denim, stiletto heeled thigh high boots set the streets on fire. Scuffing newly purchased “So Kate” Louboutin’s is almost a sin; the contrast of black leather against red soles is almost amazing. “Hi, I’d like to try these on in size seven,” says a beautiful woman wearing a black V-neck backless mini-dress and Chanel pearl stud earrings. Heavy makeup is not her thing, but frequent trips to Barneys New York was when it was open. People compliment her on the fragrance she’s wearing, her dress and the heels that adorn her. The shoe salesperson says, “If they’re too tight, you can go a half-size bigger;” she says, “Thank you, I know, but never.”

Essence of Love (pt. 2)

Love is accommodating. Love is not rigid in its nature — its elasticity stretches to the limit and still holds everything together. Forgiveness is Love’s greatest gift. Love bestows grace and is gracefully beautiful. Love’s deepest depths may require sacrifice without acknowledgement, thankfulness or reciprocation from its receiver. Love’s essence is manifested in true believers. Love is steadfast in excellent health and more-so in illness near death. Love is not sex, but through intimate sexual expressions Love can be made manifest. Love is eternal. Sometimes, it can be viewed as senseless and irrational. By nature, Love is transcendent with many intricate layers in beautiful colors. Love may require you to stand against opposing sentiment without even an inch of relent. Love is a precious gift heaven sent. Even in the face of death, Love will provide you unfathomable strength. Love is often proclaimed with ultra sincerity in last breaths. Love is spiritual. Love is ethereal. Love touches and heals many people. In Love’s embrace one can can vulnerable. Love is gorgeous. Love is beautifully intimate. Love is sought by those who betrayed the attributes of it in their last moments. Love is a child that causes exceedingly great pain to his mother in labor but after, she cries joyous tears as he is in the embrace of his protector with whom he will share a bond forever. Love is an emotional cord braided with another that could never be severed. Love is sincere and passionate in its endeavors. Love, are the words left with me by my mother before I lost her. 

Malicious Deceit

They use the word LOVE so loosely, corrupting the meaning and tarnishing the radiance of its beauty. I despise their blasphemy, for they have never loved and will never. Their hearts are dark, manipulating emotions for power, sex and money. They are void of morality, cold, without empathy. They whisper lies that sound so sweet — their victims fall into a vicious trap of deceit. Oh, Lord, please help them see it. Heaven, before they are totally broken and the tears run, please help them see it. They prey on the vulnerable, the already victimized, and the heartbroken then intentionally hurt them again. They use the word LOVE as a potent weapon leaving lives in ruin and utter devastation. They will seek LOVE when destruction is upon them, but they will not find it. They will ask for mercy in their final hour of death, but there will be no absolution for their transgressions. In their elder years they will suffer, gaunt with the darkness that condemns them. Blindness will strike them, yet they will clearly see the faces and names of their endless victims. They will reach for the comfort of angels wings, but there will be nothing. Despair will overtake them, and for LOVE they will give every and anything, falling on their knees and praying, saying: Please love me, Please love me, Please love me, incessantly, over and over again in breathless whispering.


I will kiss you in your sleeping. I will comfort you in your weeping. I will hold you in your dreaming. I will whisper the secrets of my soul to you in my speaking. I will always love you, not for your beauty or for sentiments of duty; I love you for just being. We embark on a new beginning — a beautiful union without ending. Now, with love in our eyes, let us consecrate the vows of our hearts at our wedding before mortal witnesses and the immortal in heaven.


The constant object of men’s desire, her rejection of them brings their ire upon her. They fuck their wives and mistresses while fantasizing about her. Her lips, breasts, ass and hips entice their most carnal secrets. They become slaves to their cravings. Men stroke themselves to intense pleasure under warm water visualizing themselves fucking her. They are secretly obsessed even when they are with their significant others. Some would even offer significant sums of money to have her. In their failed attempts they call her Slut, in vitriolic anger. In stark hypocrisy they whisper to themselves that they love her; they would gladly fall on their knees to suck her cream colored pedicured toes and drink her bathwater. They’re soulless and emotionally inept; their offers do not move her. She has been with powerful men before, so men’s display of wealth is minimal and unimpressive in her eyes. They are not knowledgeable enough to know that she wants a man who can reach the depths of her soul and in genuine friendship allow love to grow in time.

Yes, she is deeply sexual and sensual, but she will give herself only to a man who truly loves her. The secret of her deepest pain is that she was violated in the worst way by her own father. In their discovery of her, they will discover the deep trauma she’s endured. But knowing they cannot have her, they whisper: Slut, Whore. Envious women call her, Jezebel and condemn her to hell. She is naturally beautiful and feminine needing no pretentious disguise. She has the most beautiful eyes. Men jeer with sexual gestures — they stare, and call her Slut as she walks by.

Storm of Tears

Perpetual dark rain masks the tears of my unending pain; there is no distinction when tears fall in a storm. Incessant sorrow is the numbness of my soul. I used to crave warmth, but I have adapted to bitter cold. I am shattered over and over again; the dams of my eyes fill with the tears of my heart. I am silent and still in my weeping before the bellowing of my anguish starts. I seek understanding no more, nor do I reach for love in its purest form. Life will be what it will be. I am a castaway, shipwrecked on unmerciful seas. I did not know that I was so deeply wounded until I saw my own blood on the leaves. The tightness of the chest and shortness of breath feels like slow imminent death. There is no fucking redemption in constant torment. If hell is my portion then in hell I will walk. I do not give a fuck about societal norms or their prejudice thoughts. The decadence of their sentiments have bloated them — they are greedy pigs with foul breath at the trough. The weight of their iniquities have crush their knees; on their bellies they crawl. Still, in unending storms tears fall. To protect myself from further pain, around my heart I build an impenetrable wall. In the dystopia of my soul I am stranded, left desolate. The beauty of past intimacy seems like a lifetime away. After early morning sensuality, from work, she would call to tell me that she was still throbbing, further inciting my intimate passion. Regretfully, I never showed her the sorrowful depths of me, afraid to show the vastness of my pain. Sorrow is now synonymous with my name — my unseen tears washed away by dark eternal rain.  


If all we do is just fuck and pretend, what then shall we say to each other in the end? What tears of heartbreak will be shed? What emotional words will be softly and lovingly spoken? What remnants shall we have to hold onto that were once filled with love before they became broken? Why do we attempt to fool each other with sweet words that mean nothing? Is it not at least somewhat sadistic that we use each other for pleasure then blaspheme the name of love as if it was love that brought us together? 

We share a bed and go through our regular routine, then right after, breathless together, you talk of wedding locations and rings. I purposely avoid your delusional sentiments, not subtly but overtly, and still, you continue to bring them up again. In the company of your friends you act like we’re some model couple because you want them to envy you — and ignorantly, they do. Maybe it’s our lust for each other that keep us together. Many times I’ve packed my bags to leave but always end up taking you on the sink in the bathroom or against the wall in the bedroom or on the carpet on your knees in any room. But that’s all we do; fuck, breakup, make up, pretend and argue.