The First

A whistling winter wind, dancing amongst loose clothing, sways through the well trod street. Her scent, carried, slowed by chill, skims passed, despite her body moulded to mine. A mere tincture reaching out, grasping me. Potent, it intoxicates the mind, causing a sharp intake of frozen air, and mirror-sheen eyes, drunken on heady aroma. With feet guided by whim, and jagged plans, the path is winding; through interest and need. An easy pace, to synchronise steps, facilitates the majestic warmth exuded, from her being, imbibed voraciously, lest a morsel be lost.
Her tender touch, strides across exposed torso, uninhibited by thin cloth, eliciting ragged breath, and a drunken heartbeat. The gentle brush of her thigh against mine as our steps coincide, her delicate breath weaving and slithering around my body, my being encased in her virtue. Transcending pleasures of mortals – as as only Eden could – each caress is gorged upon, in uncontrollable egoism; insatiable longing.
Drifting amongst focused crowds, little more than the occasion glance is pragmatic, surely boding accident. A visage such as hers merits far more. A single glance, rendered impossible, all intention cast aside, evolved; indulging in the saturation of the soul, by one – unequivocally - flawless.
Excited exclamations fly from perfect pink-painted lips, and each syllable is the pluck of angelic harp, with lilting laughter more euphonious than all of natures greatest feats. Her soothing tone calms and comforts wind God's pain, and leaves a gentle breeze in thanks.
Shrouded in physical form, this mask tells tales of slender, of beauty, of ineffable divinity. A crude understatement. A soul whole enough, for an angel to weep in envy. Causing Gods to fixate and demons show mercy; none can resist the allure - no beguilement needed - in simplistic probity. Such fragility, hair teasing as it engages in eccentric games with the wind, reaching my chin with the aid of a new found playmate. Soft skin, whiter than any mere Ming trinket; smooth and velvety – as flawless as the still lake on clear winter morn.
How superficial - a love born upon first sight? In birth named lust by it's father, love by it's mother. But a lust of the profound, silk skin reduced to Hessian rag' price, as invaluable soul emerged.
She glances up, smiling casual cause to breathtaking effect. Entering the modern marketplace, shelves and stacks and hangers, framing frenzied customers and beset staff. Time is irrelevant. As one, we meander through Chronos' grand design, disregarding his will.
Through bustled aisles, promises and desperate jokes, self-mockery, baiting a smile. A march hare heartbeat, breaching dynamic crescendo, warns of dizzying uncertainty. Cold reason once triumph has left the mind. Our philosopher king has died and left a soldier to rule. An instinctual comparison draws her the victor, as one thousand other women slip passed. Each particle of this pathetic being is dedicated to her glory, obsessed with benevolent desires, as my body, now her temple, houses the soul, her true disciple.
Would you think me insane? Obsessed after moons first dance? Madness may grip my soul- clawing and snarling and ripping, until I tear my body off my soul, tear away the infection, and reveal ethereal strength. My life is an illusion serving no purpose than to facilitate my worship. My one vestige of virtue is her, my trueness and desire, and with her it shall remain. Ne'er a man could claim me mad, for a madman would readily rebut virtue in pursuit of animalistic pursuit.
We enter once more into childish winds care. In our reality, out with any others. Ghosts of another world may pass, but we pay no heed. For we are alone.
We are content.
Christmas Eve was upon us. I had begin to realise, that I would die for this woman. Her joy my perpetual pursuit, her mood my taskmaster. Her smile - my muse.
She burrows in closer to my chest garbed in heavy pitch woollen coat. Fleeing wicked wind God's vicious snatch. For even he was weak to her charm, infatuated; ensnared. Her discomfort, my new found guilt, a self-serving vice. As her weariness and shivering frame, huddled in, my senses once more dimmed, in her poppy-tear presence.
Entering into cities spine, down smooth steel stairs, I hasten below her. Where I belong. I gaze upon her an inch above and make my choice. In this frozen, dim stairway, leading to crammed tunnels engineered from man-made steel and stone, I stop. Here is right.
No fanfare or festivity. No animated atmosphere, hazing perception, an casting mist over true desire or purpose. Nothing other than her and I. In discomfort, in weariness. In wicked wind God's jealous clairvoyance. All there exists is her.
Here is where truth shines.
Not upon a night of grand gesture and capricious courting, exciting and ensnaring reason; sedating it until next morn – shall the truth be seen. Attraction to occasion will never substitute that to the soul. Which is why now is the time.
The question is raised.
And time freezes.
Chronos cruel joke, petty revenge, has begun. Now an eternity of uncertainty shall pass before an answer. Only she has the power to smite him, cracking the shackles and unleashing me into life once more.
She exercises her right, and accepts this mumbling, mediocre merry-andrew, upon herself. And from that point onward, I remain grateful.
From that moment forth the only connotation of my bodies congregation is eternal. And for it to ring mutual, I would suffer demons sadism and God's wrath. I would rip flesh from bone and endure torture until the seventh seal releases me. I would do anything, for her to love me, and to see her smile, she who gave me a chance.

And a chance taken that I am ineffably thankful for.

If I had to live my life over and over, without there ever being any change, every single detail, every speck of dust and every phrase, and I could do nothing but watch. You would make it worthwhile. you would preserve my sanity.