"Recollecting April"

                          Her conditioned hair is raven-black and falls all-down her slender shoulders: in subtle winds; her pleasant portrait is fresh to me, brisk and fashioned: resembling daytime's seasonal imagery. A decrepit falling; dry crumbling leaves of oak trees and crescent maple boughs; sullenly fading: turning amid late-Autumn. A good feminine infrastructure can go a long way these days; while semi-consciously and gradually: I search for lost promises and unfulfilled desires. I'm well acquainted with her and know where she lives; in this quaint and deserted outskirt county. She resides on the main-drag across from a chain dollar-store; on the third floor of an old apartment building above a used-book store.
                        I delivered a vegetarian pizza to her place once. Her third-story flat has beaded canopy windows that look out onto the slumbering neighborhood street. A lavender aromatic incense aura spreads out among her building's hallway. She wears too much eye-liner; with pale chiseled cheekbones articulated by the omniscient Greek gods themselves. She owns a different pair of girly shoes for everyday of the passing week; her bedroom walk-in closet overflows with velvet shoe-boxes and old assorted handbags. I sometimes see her on the way to a Zumba class amid late Wednesday afternoon. The workout she attends takes place in an old nineteenth century Methodist church that I frequent NA meetings in. Concrete deity and perverse demi-gods pervade old manufactured stained-glass window cathedrals. A dingy musk lingers on the upstairs landing beside a pillared restroom corridor. I can hear routine exercise music bumping while approaching the men's laboratory.
                         Dusk descends languidly upon residential sidewalk perimeters. Casually strolling back to my recovery house upon nocturnal village walkways, below silver silhouetted trees: I imagine her comfortably curled up on a beige queen-mattress reading Proust. A long list of abandoned lovers fill her  illustrious resume. She loves robust Starbucks drive-thrus that rest off the route 309 interstate. Occasionally around dinnertime; as warm sunlight dwindles from idle gray clouds of a tangerine-yellow horizon; I catch her walking a cute domesticated short-haired chihuahua named Freda.
                          Tender are the personal years we spared for each other; in selfless intervals we waltzed to queer Celtic hymns. Amid full continental dance halls we stepped on each others toes; and out of the music's rhythm:  How I wish I knew who you were these days.