The Penultimate Pleasures

The Spoil of Youth

The husbandry of her hands were the same as her delicate posture, raveled tightly but softly around the spoil of her youth.
I haven't felt this way in years.
It feels foreign like a touch from some unseen other letting me know the world still spins on despite my protest.
I can only hope to imagine what the actual touch of her soul feels like on something so broken as me.
I'm content in just wondering and for the first time in forever that's alright.
I felt her body by happenstance and it washed away my hubris like an angry rip tide of absolution.
I feel forgiven, not by her touch but the touch as a conduit shows to me a world of particulars uncontrollable, mutable, malleable, and suspenseful
I revel again in the spontaneity of the unknown!
Her cheeks are flushed with the kisses of the English dead and her hair is platinum like the moonlight's glaze oe'r the crowded earth.
Her lips are fuller than Jasmines budding plumage and I see in her a palladium of softness that could calm the braying hounds that lie within us.
Could I muster that ember my youth once knew
Rekindle the flames of confidence again?
I sure hope so...
but it's okay if I can't another vessel lies hidden to me somewhere, but goodness I sure hope it's this one.
The lilies whisper one to another yet there hushed voices can't compare to the sweetness of the throaty ease of her speech.
It waxes its fever on my bones and chills the tips of my fingers.
Her spirit is that of Debussy's, frolicking like a child in the wintry parks of our mortality
Oh to know her mortality and mortality its own self be made known to her,
That she might grasp in a mirror darkly her reflection which I perceive to be me;
Identical In oneness and congruent in symmetry
But complete in its otherness.
But alas she loves another
And the frailty of my charm may have already shed its final leaf of autumn
But I learned with in me there lies an invincible summer a contentedness of self that will be alright if she loves alternatively
Alright but not ideal
Inanely I long to watch the black and white starlets of Hollywood with her in my company
Cinema of yesteryear that lie all but forgotten
Locked away in sepulchers of antiquity
gems of resplendent radiance entombed by the short memory of man.
How fitting it be that this radiant gem be hidden from me as well but on the contrary by the heart of another man
How foolish is it of me that i imagine port calls filled with exploration of a foreign country, but unlike Goethe to see the basilicas as places teeming with life and the ruins as living theaters not moseleams 
Because I would have what Goethe could not posses which is to say...
A woman to share the art of human experience with.
Come let me show you the aesthetician which you desire the other, the others are dilettantes and the only thing beautiful about me is mind.