Personal Narrative: A Humorous Day

To recollect your memory is to exhume your cold corpse from a marble mausoleum and recite Vespers over the echo of your once beating heart. Oh, your beating heart. On evenings that were too cold or too windy for comfort, I would rest my head on the nape of your neck and embrace your body with my trembling arms. My palm would find your chest and the seismic resonance of your heart would give me that relieving reminder that you were indeed real. There was never a day where you could not satisfy my yearning for company.
You were my security, my humble consort of the night. You were that resplendent crescent of the moon that permitted my repose in the swing of your gilded skin. Your skin, how it glistened on those summer days at the beach when we would frolic on the sand. We would take a promenade on the pier, and you would take candids of me twirling and smiling―my smile was awfully crooked―and laughing with your Polaroid. We would end the day being together, you embracing me from behind, whispering sweet nothings and poetry into my ear. You were always so tender as you would gingerly caress my cheeks like a
mother does to the sinews of a newborn child. You were so careful to not shatter the glass that constructed the vessel of my flesh. I was this vitreous stem with marcescent petals―but ever so gracious am I for your company, for you maintained my fragility by offering your genuine care. But now I have lost that sensation of you attending to my side.
Even if you are gone, Eden, recalling the memories of us perpetuates my love for you.
I wish I could ensconce myself in your generous hold again. I wish I could immerse myself in the emerald pools of your eyes and swim in the rich loveliness that you possessed. I wish we could have pursued our lives together and accomplished all that which we aspired to do; but alas, the iron scythe of the inevitable has reaped you from this earth, leaving me to wilt slowly in the material field where my only happiness is found in the words that I write. So, I recount the images of us spinning on the hot sand and waltzing to the orchestra that night of your summer gala.
I wish we could have done everything on earth together, my love. But for now, to extract myself from this dismal depression, I will recount our memories, resurrecting a time where I was once happy. Happy with
you.