The door opened and
He saw her.
She was the giver of pain and pleasure,
hellos and goodbyes,
He remembered the first time,
the passion of the moment,
that disguised the pain to come.
Life’s lessons always seem to be learned
too late.
When he was a child,
eating peanut butter sandwiches,
and playing with toy soldiers,
he was immune from the heartache
of lost love,
and new beginnings.
He was in awe of her beauty.
He saw the soul
of his mate,
and remembered all the times
his selfishness hid his true feelings.
When their skin touched,
he was transformed again;
a new lover,
tasting the fruit of passion,
lost in a gauze covered haze
of emotion.
He embraced her,
entwined in a spaghetti of arms and legs
Under a purple moon.
As he stroked her skin,
he prayed for deliverance
from the agony
of her decision.
He hated the doubt he had partly caused.
He hated the indecision of a moment
that controlled his future.
He loved her
with a devotion
reserved for altar boys on Sunday morning.
It was a devotion that would be impossible to explain
in a poem,
or a novel,
or the encyclopedia of his life.
He prayed for the strength to live in a world
without her.
He prayed for the grace of a world
in which she was his,
forever.