donzell

I remember that balmy July night. I was cowering at the table in awe of the frivolity (or was it blatant sexuality) that was in front of me. I remember the red dress that you wore. It reminded me of the dresses worn at those fabled sock-hops of days of not too long ago. Someone observed that I had not kissed you. You looked at me with glee and anticipation, and hoping that I would not shirk away in fear. I arose from my seat and met you eye to eye. I knew what I had to do. I kissed you. The passion of many years repressed by tradition or worry was gone. The flames of passion burned my very being and my soul. It was wonderful to feel you in my arms and to feel your hands in my hair. My heart was beating like a drum and felt like it would leave my chest. This is what the scribes of old meant when they described lust or love. At this moment, I would take either. While others were clamoring for your attention, I acted like the alpha male of a wolf pack, staking out my territory or in other words, what I claimed to be mine. I did not want you to leave my side. The warmth of your caresses, the smoothness of your lips, and the softness of your skin was more intoxicating to me than any fruit of the wine or the barley that has ever been produced. While my prudish morals gave me momentary concern of the fact that you were legally bonded to another, I have to admit truthfully that I did not care if you were married. I felt your heartbeat as you felt mine. While that time on that patio was transitory and fleeting like the vapor from a boiling pot of water, that short amount of time filled the space of hours, days, or years of those not blessed to feel such passion. Yet, when the time came to leave with you, I fell to the trappings of a moral code that belongs on the ash heap of history. I came up with a pitiful pretext as to why I had to leave. However, what my heart, my soul, and every fiber of my being wanted to do was to go with you wherever the night would take us. Now, years have passed since that balmy July night, and I am sitting here under the influence of an ale from a foreign land hoping that it will dull my memory of that night. Yet, all it has done has made my memories more keen and my regret more pronounced. The only hope that I have now is with the murky depths of sleep. I can only hope that sleep will cloud my mind, let me slip the surly bonds of consciousness, and let me fall into the abyss of unconsciousness until the morn comes.