my road-the fickle lover

At this point in time I began writing a book of poetry.  I didn't know it at the time, but eventually it would be known as "The fickle lover".  In fact, at the time, I did not know it would be a book.   It was just a single poem.
The poems were all written to her, of course.  At the time, they had nothing to do with fickle.  Instead they were puns on the non-relationship that inspired them.  It was a type of friendship where both parties admitted, grudgingly perhaps, that they wanted to fuck each other, but weren't going to do it.
Through my memory I remembered what my senses had experienced.  The smell, she had this incredible smell, of her hair and skin, the look of her as she lay asleep and the look in her eyes when she woke up, the sound of her regular breathing, the feel of almost every part of her body.  Yes, she was asleep and I might well have not moved my hands at all, but save for one place which seemed in appropriate, I touched every part of her body, to keep the circulation I had to move, and there were so many different ways to hold her, none of which seemed to disturb her very much.
The kissing, well that was also of a friendly nature, although there was a tremendous amount of passion held back.  It was like trying to stop a wild fire backed by hurricane force winds with a straw mat, at least that it what it felt like to me.  Nevertheless, I dutifully held the mat up against the flames.
The next day after I left, we talked on the phone and the night before was not an impediment. If anything, it became easier to talk to her the closer we got.
And so I began to write poetry which was added to the books I was writing as a part of my awakening to virtue and my sense of self.  I did not yet realize that I was living as if it was the last days of my life, but slowly I would recognize that feeling, even up to the point when I died and became nothing more than a dead person imitating life, but that took much longer.  My glass is empty.