It Happens, Sometimes

That all I want to do is create a passage of real beauty

Harry Hogg
3 min readDec 3, 2023
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Evenings, like forever, start fleeting; going fast. It was then I saw her at some distance, appearing in the mist, ending the need for a mass of fondled faces imagined in a lifetime. I expected every spring to bring her to my arms, to my side, but autumns came thick and firm and fast. I never gave up believing she’d arrive with each winters passing, be there as the moon fell, and the sun rose, clasping hands, our bodies closing that gap between the nightline and the noon.

Is this it?

Is this what every human being is looking for? Is this why we are never closed to the idea of being found?

I’ve lived a life of transparent failings, so you must forgive my need to marvel. I crave the sound of her voice, the moisture of her mouth as it speaks to me, the overwhelming desire to kiss it quiet when it speaks to anyone else but me! I am her Rimbaud, Verlain, Baudelaire, or any other member of that whole crew who wondered poetically about shoulder blades, the curdling juices between lovers, the battering submissions, and the scars of false perceptions.

I lie beside her not understanding the language of sleep, content to drown in the warmth of her breasts, her body pulling me in, the quicksilver mind with all its glittering, shimmering pools of ideas and thoughts. Has she no mercy; has she no compassion for a man lost in the beauty of tender intelligence and member moving eroticism?

I cannot lay my head down without her; seeing only the edge of wonder, not content to sleep in some interstellar space between her and what is real. I love her from my nerve ends to my brain cells, and I’m damned if she shouldn’t accept the blame of all that she is, all that I fear, and all she shall yet mean to me.

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