Letter to Santa

The ambiance could not have been better. The candles, Italian cuisine, the tuxedo, the lingerie. The room was dim as the movement was unfolding. The eyes, the laughter, the smile, the baiting. Unfolding into a symphony of motion, sweat, joy, and trembling. Locked eyes as hope intermingled with fear sink in. Exhilerated exhaustion fills the room as the climax fades. Hours pass as fan blades churn the atmosphere as empty eyes follow. A single tear hits the pillow before sleep sets in. Now moved on, responsibility thrown away with a battered heart as apathy now eats away with the now hardening cynicism.

He Sees, He Feels, He Weeps

There is no fear in Love

For perfect love casts out all fear