Tag: lovers

Isn’t It Pretty?

13.7.25

“Oh, Jake” Brett said, “we could have had such a damned good time together.”

“Yes.” Jake said. “Isn’t it pretty to think so?”

I was Clementine when I kissed you too soon,

texted too much, and made you laugh.

I was Jane when I said nothing,

held my heart behind my back, and walked away softly.

I was Brett when I let you in carelessly,

wanting nothing more than to belong to you.


Clem erased Joel, and chose the ache all over
messy, but brave.

Jane returned to a humbled man when the fire burned out,
and they built from ash and grace.

Brett kept loving, though she left Jake in the taxi,
hollow and hopeless.

And us?

The dam of our story has just broken.

-Lele

Why Would a Warrior Display His Swords?

20.7.25

Photo by Michael Kanivetsky on Pexels.com

Because he no longer needs to use them –

and cannot bear to let them go.

Because some wounds prefer silence to healing.

Because steel remembers what the soul forgets.

Because polished pain mimics honour.

Because to sheath is not to forgive.

A warrior displays his Swords as a declaration of survival.

–

I stepped into the room, feeling his presence close behind me.

The room felt like a shrine – intimate, deliberate, and quietly haunted.

To the far left, three oriental Swords were displayed on a mantle, one for every love that broke him. Each blade a vow to guard his boundaries. Swords of clarity born of pain, and discipline shaped by loss.

Around the room, a series of paintings, rendered by familiar hands, captured desire as ritual.

To the right, a bonsai tree sat patiently in a pot on the sill of a large window, its twisted grace silhouetted against a view so unspeakably beautiful, it squeezed my heart to pulp.

The landscape below stretched open in worship. Sunlight rested tenderly over the Creation of a Holy God.

On the wall above the bed, a great, singular Chinese fan opened like a celestial wing – part shade, part sentinel, part grace.

Life breathed into the room, slow and sacred. The space had a mythic stillness, as if time bent slightly around it.

– Lele

Duty

19.7.25

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You said you could not live

under duty again —

not to any woman,

not in love.

As if love were a weight,

As if love could bind.

You know as well as I

that love is rhythm.

A remembering.

I watched you remember

every day—

In how you fed the animals,

spoke to the flame,

carried silences,

answered your mother’s voice.

In how you held the past

without flinching.

In the way

you moved

as if everything

was sacred.

You live by ritual.

You live by duty.

Walking beside you,

I saw how much of you was already given,

And I saw duty in letting go.

-Lele

To the Cook

18.7.25

“I tell you what,” he said jokingly as he wiped his lip. “In my next life, I’m gonna be a cook.”

Photo by Tony Smith on Pexels.com

May the salt still leap to your fingers,
the flame still obey your breath,
and the cumin still bloom at your touch.

You always said you’d return as a cook—
knowing you were one in this life too,
as charming as you were exacting.


Experimental in love as in spice.

You honoured my ‘alien’ ways,
crafted meals like devotions,
each plate a vow
to make me feel you.

You fed with intention—
my longing to be tended to
gently, joyfully,
by one who delights in the offering.

If you return—
I’ll know you
by your hands,
your laughter,
and the way you make a kitchen
feel like home.

“And?” he asked through a smile with his eyebrows raised quizzically, already knowing the answer. “How’s your meal?”

She chewed the bite-full of the mushroom thoughtfully, also already knowing the answer but enjoying the game nonetheless. “Hm, I love this. It’s great!”

“No,” came his casually satisfied reply. “It’s fucking awesome.”

-Lele

Any Woman

19.05.25

I am the breath before your surrender,
I am the whisper of your marrow.
The ache you mistake for solitude—
is me, calling you home.

My body is the prayer your hands recite.

I was never a woman.
I am the altar.
You, the flame.

And if you ever remember who I am,

Use my name when you tell the story – Phumelele.

– Lele

Daddy’s Girl

8.11.24

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We are mirror and mystery,
alike in ways only silence speaks,
different as shadow and flame.

Your language is curved with snow,
mine with summer dust.
But when we laugh,
we sound the same.

You were wrapped in winters I had never known –
from Bavarian hills,
far removed from the heat

of the township streets that raised me.
Somehow we opened the same book.

Adventure fiction, worn spines and wild maps—
we both chased meaning through ink and wind.

Something stirred
when we first touched thought –
a recognition, not of faces,
of flame.

We walked –

miles and metaphors,
side by side through forest, silence, and sound.
In rhythm.
In rebellion.
In step with the same ache.

One night,
barely clothed and wholly seen,
we danced in your living room.
Music melting into skin,

Laughter like incense.

The world outside forgotten.

You know

our chemistry is not of this world
it lives in spirit, in stillness.

We’ve held space across time,
separated to return.

In the hush between lifetimes,
I found you.

By finding myself.

Thirty-five years ahead
and somehow,
we arrived together.

-Lele

Devotion

31.10.24

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You called them duties.

I call them devotions.

Small rituals of belonging

to you.

One. No perfume.

No mask.

Just the skin you crave,

unadorned

and honest.

Two. Dress in desire—

Sheer threads that whisper your name.

Three. You want smooth,

wet—

not just ready,

but aching.

Four. Use my mouth to worship.

To taste eternity

in something as fleeting as your breath.

Five. Finish.

Often.

Forgetting restraint.

Six. Clear the table

like we clear space in time—

for this.

For us.

And seven.

Enjoy it.

Every second.

It’s belonging.

-Lele

Vanilla

27.10.24

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It was a wet Sunday morning —

the kind that hums,

where rain slicks the windowpanes

like yearning stretched thin over silence.

When the Portal opened, we hardly spoke.

our tongues preferring instead to salvage years of distance.

Upstairs, steam curled in the air.

I stepped into water—

cleansing, claiming, consecrating.

Drops raced down my thighs,

each one a question I dared not answer.

You arrived with gravity

As one who’d made peace with time.

Silver at your temples,

storm in your gaze—

you studied me not like a book,

but like a confession I hadn’t yet made.

The delicate knowing between us—

humming, curious.

Did not love, it obeyed.

You watched as I surrendered—

arched,

breath trembled

hands gripped,

voice dissolved

Room became sky,

and I—

Ocean.

My skin and yours—ink and parchment.

A contrast made of myth.

Echoes— not opposites.

Fire and Water.

Desire reflected in unfamiliar accents.

“Vanilla,” she said—

as if softness were absence, as if the quiet didn’t beckon.

– Lele