She touched me sometimes with the grace of her earnest attention. It was a touch both ethereal and ephemeral, and instilled in me the lethargy of empty longing, for I stayed rooted to the heavy clay of mature reason without prospect of ever walking free. And then she left my sullen earth for greener fields and became a lady of history.
I see her occasionally, mostly in the passing dreams of sleep which always end with her exit. The taste of unfulfilment is bitter as the gourd painted in mute tones of inevitable resignation. I miss her ever, and sometimes sadly, without valid point or justification.