My heart was left, stopped, in Greenwich Village, next to a girl with brown hair. It skipped a few beats as I walked through the comic store glancing through trinkets I never really knew I wanted, and realized I didn't. But realized the man sitting next to her was an intimate, more intimate than I could hope to be in five minutes before moving (five minutes before my heart could beat after my first glimpse of Helen in casual hippie fashion; breathing the sun in, for oxygen was nothing to her). Hesitation my burden once again, I flirted passionately with the notion of taking her picture, of begging this creature for a fragment of her beauty and ambience, of a piece, a memory. The notion was a creature of much glorious beauty itself, of flowing red hair vainly concealing elegant green evening wear awash in curves and shadow, and the notion flirted back, coyly. Yet when the deal was struck, and we were to be bed mates (my heart stopped), I went to beg this nature born creature, tree nymph, or Aphrodite's second coming, born of cement as opposed to sea foam - when I was prepared to enrapture this kismetic romance in eternity, to free myself of its wrought iron bonds - my captors found me, bound me, and dragged me from her love laden ambience! My eyes could not part from her, my head turned to steal more of her - more and more - and finally, my heart having stopped, I discarded it as a bad watch against the wall to her side. The veins clogged with excitement and passion drained slowly, and so with my thoughts so too was my unreasoning passion there, by her side, and now the whole of the world sees it too. Lying there in Greenwich Village, entrapped in my thoughts.
And maybe that vixen will pick up my heart, hands awash in what I give to her alone, and savour it all, bathe in the emotions and contribute it to her luscious mosaic. Or maybe, just maybe, she'll return it to me, and leave hers.