The Visitor

A visitor drifted into my town,

and we met on the corner of Love and Lust.

His voice so deep, mysterious, and profound;

to explore it further was a must.

Walking among the giants of the city,

his hand kept mine warm and protected.

He said, "You're so beautiful. So pretty,"
and for some small moments, we connected.

Gazing over candlelight,
with soft jazz interludes,
We shared memories of a long time passed.
Desire was winning the fight,
as my heart did finally conclude,
to kiss could not be wrong, though it wouldn't last.

With fingers interlaced,
we traveled across the Brooklyn bridge,
the city forever shining, so glorious, momentous.
With judgement misplaced,
I was fighting the brevity of this image;

my heart knew I'd be losing, this nakedness, too dangerous.

We continued on to the center of Times Square,

where the stairs are red and the crowd is contagious.

His lips brushed mine as my heart echoed a prayer,

but what we had will remain as always nameless.

It all had been for no more than three days,
but something so beautiful had occurred.
He taught me that kisses could come as bouquets,
a dozen or more, enthralling and completely absurd.

I've been told that when good things come,

they shouldn't be questioned.

They are worthwhile, passionate and seldom,

and may even be pre-destined.

And alas, I do long for yet another moment,

but more so, I pray that I may be Pardoned...

for The visitor had came and went,

leaving my lips stained, crimsoned, abandoned.