Dying Leaf Monologue

Dying Leaves The tongue-tickling aroma of fall eludes him, as he is entranced by his auspicious walk within the tunnel of dying leaves. They wrap their arms gently around him as they liberate themselves from the now naked branches. Him, the hundred and seventy pound man defined by height and silver-lined, faded blonde hair that pairs sweetly with his carefully goldened skin, pursues his destination with great purpose. His significance: the only name in which he desires to be trickled into the grooves of his earlobes, the one who awaits his arrival for permission to relinquish all that molests her innocent mind throughout the day’s various anxieties.
Her, the unintentional facade of youth, ornamented with dark chocolate hair that tastes ever-so-satisfying along with her brown doughy eyes that mesmerize every stranger in passing. She is, in much vain, the aspiration of pubescent girls who have lost all patience of the destiny that awaits their near future. Grown men unwillingly glue their eyes obsequiously to her gentle figure, for their subconsciouses must know that a precious moment such as this is one characterized by brevity.
This is the woman who inflicts such a dreamy leisure on his way home. This is the woman who tragically contains her emotions in the most upright and independent way, but spares herself when around him. This is the
Her soft, slightly-warm fingers garnished with perfectly polished works of art on each, as they caress and gently carve their way through the scruff of his face, and then as they cascade past his lower ear only to pause there. . . While resting on the left-most part of his neck, every crease of the delicately sculpted hand is defined and absorbed by his thoughts. However, such clarity dissipates as his wife then proceeds to quietly and calmly utilize this lever she has just created to smoothly pull him towards the small opening between her soft, full