Autumn Walks.

I left late in the day.
We walked together in the autumn afternoon. I
Kept my head hung low.

I held some flowers for her in my hand.
Daisies, her favorite kind.
For a long time we were silent,
Letting the strong breeze nudge at our backs and
Kick the fallen leaves up, making them
Dance gracefully all around us.
With a bittersweet smile, I remembered how
We used to take walks like this all the time.
I remembered how much she loved the fall colors.

I told her I missed her.
I didn’t know if she heard me, so I kept talking.
About how I knew it was stupid of me, and
How I just couldn’t help how I felt, and
How I’d wonder if she felt the same way.
There was a long silence.
Then, I could feel her hand in mine; her warm, gentle touch
Sent electricity through me.
I choked up when it made me realize just how much
I missed her touch.

We arrived at our destination before sundown. With a sigh,
I reminded her that in this life, there would never
Be anyone else for me.
I told her I loved her.

I placed the daisies reverently
At her grave and said a tearful
Final farewell.

Ode.

She’d looked at me coyly and called me a scoundrel. I could only smile and say, “I try not to be.” I’d never met anyone like her before. Her abundant bracelets and large necklace earned her the nickname “Egypt” across the party, but I simply called her “Temptress,” for her penetrating eyes were making me belong to her, and she knew it, even though I didn’t show it. The kitchen floor was slick and when she started to fall I caught her, and for a moment we looked for all the world like Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall. I told her that every eye in the room was on her, but none looked on her so reverently as my own. Oh… just a kiss from here I desired the way most men desire taking a woman all the way. She liked to test me: to see if I would make out with another fellow to see her kiss her friend. I declined, saying I was no whore. Right answer. She wanted to see if I’d kiss a man if a kiss from her was the prize. I said no, saying I would rather she’d kiss me on my own merit. She penetrated me with her eyes, smiled and said, “I’d kiss you.” She asked me if I read Jack Kerouac, and sat down on an open windowsill. She leaned back, out the window, and I pulled her back in. As I did, she kissed me. In spite of the rum we’d shared, this was my intoxicant. Her scent, her taste, the tactile pleasure of her hips, her flat stomach and her ample bosom. I whispered that she truly was the temptress. Then and there I knew that no one would be good enough after this. She told me to call her my muse. She said she could inspire me. I told her she already had. And although in all likelihood we shall never meet again, I am forever hers. The Temptress. The Muse. The Goddess.