some prose about a little nursing student I know:

As my previouse happiness became sorrow,

Now I shall make my present sadness into joy.

She first came to me as a sprite. Young cherubian lips. The rosy cheeks and skin only northernerns get in the sub tropics. God forbit northerners pass into the true tropics. for there they would scorch under the sun, melt in the heat, and crumble from the rain. For her this was an exotic paradisio .

I suspect, my persona was part of her scenery. A latin lover amidst the backdrop of a volcanic Shangri-La.

It seemed to her all was laghter and curiosity. How could I not fall? I did, in trickles at first.

Is this not why all men swoon to younger women? Because these dolls tease us with an innocence and freedom we so long to regain. Yes, the great spirit of the universe grants youth with the penalty of innocence. Later life , It lends out wisdom while claiming interest in pain.

But that is how she came.  And I just young enough not to foresee the disaster. I told her that I refused to contribute any emotions beyond the norm.  I will smile , laugh, and cackle so loud the neighbors will hear their furniture creak.  I may rub you tightly below the blankets. Massage you for hours and bestow deepest sweet lullabies.

I will not fall in love. But like the rain in Florida, the trickles that fall are only reminders that soon it will pour.

This was like challenging a fighter to a match. She persuaded, tantalized : “We could come closer together, enjoy and learn from one another.  It would be possible to part without breaking hearts. Things don’t have to be ugly.”

And I caved faster than a hill of ants.  My heart rested on sand you see.

This angle with her far flung fantasies and ideas has become a nymph.  She is now only wise enough to know that she is too young to go on with me.  She has other flavors to try, other lovers to know.  But her wrinkled and inquisitive pained face shows that she doesn’t quite understand why moving on MUST include pain. That is why I say she has grown into a nymph.  She is a woodland spirit, yet not as naive as before. Not yet wise enough to be a witch.

Bless her soul. I long for it.  I remember I must diet. The more I taste of her nubile spirit, the larger my appetite grows.  I remember I must fall in love again w/ my self.  Grow new branches, and thorns.  I must prepare myself for my next lover. I want to have new tricks to entertain with.  I want to collect trinkets to shimmer and tantalize my conquests with. I want to develop knowledge, like the tribesman in Africa who buys potions, I shall read until my head is filled with spells.

Why shouldn’t all the reconstitution and mixing and preparation bee a barrel of fun for me? Even she has helped make  sadness into joy.

It was a blast and now, it will be again! *