Fluid Movements

I was going downtown to meet an exotic girl in the open café where the children laugh and play along the innocent hours of summer. I was wondering if sunlight was dancing in her eyes like the fluid movements of ancient poetry composed for preeminent deities? I'm always astonished contemplating possible love and mysterious journeys while on amorous pursuits. I've lived too long as an unseen ghost traversing avenues of funeral flowers, too heartbroken and much too dower. I was caught in a dream of her mouth amid conversations at train stations, pleasantly entangled in every word. We walked to the river to gather stones and utter prayers where former lovers wed beside the bridge. If I could keep her perfumed handkerchief in my ecstatic possession, perhaps, this continuing bewildering existence would seem less cruel. I picked up a flower petal on the sidewalk and made the sign of the cross as I thought of her: I always attempt to ward off the power of dissatisfaction from incomplete rendezvous and failed connections. There's always a risk of failure to all these sentimental thoughts and threatening tears, but every forward energy must coalesce in the unzipping of her flowery dress and the kissing of her neck at summer dusk. At dawn, I'm certain, I'll weep at the bottom of her apartment stairs as I leave and gently enter the morning rain.