Raw Penetrable Outlines

                                  Time to channel languid dreamlike imagery into ripe lucid realities. I travel on occasion, leaving pale cemented walkways behind me, below the autumnal falling of crescent feet. My subtle footsteps leave no trace of what is, or what could have been:
                                  In naive formalities I came upon her. Taking notice of a young intelligent woman with tell-tale green eyes, sitting upright upon grass recess fields; encircling a young crowd of women, telling vague innocent stories. Dark crimson hair that fell all around her slender shoulders. Her portrait came across rather crisp to me, amidst bleary-eyed  adolescent conceptions. High-school hallways; the resilient magnets of youth. Gym-Auditorium dances and juvenile recreation. After school promenades homeward, tiresome; embedded upon county trails of weekday routine. What took place was nothing short of god's work, in his own time.
                                  I still dream about the idea of her, in all actuality, perhaps a long way from truth, and this is okay:                  
                                  What has become of me lately? Dry months of endless hours, blaring sun at my back, breaking a sweat at the slightest effort. Darling, how youth escaped me! Venerable, youth. You taught me how to become a man, in your own way. Was I ready? Probably not, that's why the lesson remains invaluable to me:
                                   Mistress of stale thwarted evenings beside residential fireplaces. Candelabra outlines brass and brimmed. Antique diamond chandeliers sway among fluorescent light bulb fixtures. Cool breezes sift through velvet drapery, softly. I dream of you to this day. An afternoon hour or three, will you come and visit me? I've become elastic-molded upon a fluctuating timeline of middle-aged mediocrity. Well furnished aromatic bathroom tiles and air freshener. Linoleum floorboard or porcelain kitchen upholstery? Daytime-edged suburbia, in the common hearth of abundance. Working class arenas exposed; upon awakening, morning thighs bruised and naked. Sultry flowers in Autumn dens of past reconciliation.
                                I was a confused teenager that loved the way you walked, how you wore your jeans rejuvenated my beating heart beyond comprehensible comparison. I was interested, intrigued, and infatuated with you. Amorous of your primitive ancestry, your taste in classic rock. My shower shampoo (Pantene) pervades a priceless whiff of nostalgic recollection. Promiscuous, fluttering bangs of hair, your eyes contained within your delicate, prevalent features. Do people still make love in the morning?, that is what I'd like to do with you. Take you up to my four-cornered bedroom, and recapture our illustrious sadness and inevitable growth, the primitive folly of abandoned decades. Were the '90s good to us? I would like to see how you are today.
                                Luminous memories of your cigarette-end embraces, upon soiled beige bedsheets. Prehistoric and aluminum, 2nd story balconies remain after my abrupt departure. Backyard poplar tress that sigh upon grim brief acquaintances. The brisk, clean Wisconsin air surrounding dated pastimes and faded playgrounds. Nocturnal guidelines have kept me predisposed in a rather timely manner.  Ravenous blood still streams through my frail tenuous sinews. Don't get me wrong, I'm still carnivorous and thriving; on recalling the fruits of your raw, penetrable outline.