She is gone but I bask in a dream-like afterglow.
I am Odysseus and her skin is the wine dark sea. Her eyes are the beacon that draws my spirit; sometimes Athena, sometimes Circe, sometimes Calypso. Gladly bound to the mast, I hear her sirens breath, coming in whispers, Poseidon's temperament embodied in dark eyed flesh, the snake Goddess compelling. The black waves of her hair surround my small raft afloat on her vast ocean. They comfort my solitude and cradle my heart. She is tiny curled in my white sheets but as big as nature and I bless the paradox and my own good fortune for the experience.
And her kiss ...like lightning to the rain slick sycamore, split with celestial thunder the cravings of my soul and forever twined her fragile limbs cross my charred and smoking chest, ozone everywhere.
There is no force in nature so strong, that sends men reeling, disarmed in disarray, sublimates thought for feeling, inspires vision beyond seeing,
that simple kiss, holds sway.
And the longed for sight of her, so warm within my hands, smoothes the wrinkled creases, past pain spread cross my brow.
Her eyes hold me, and bear the embrace her arms long to gage, 'til cross the room, like magnets flung in space, we meet in fast flight, the balance finally made. And her lips breathe life into mine and I know the strength of her grip once more.

And these eyes, that span centuries, that hold a timeless sense, have viewed; victors and vanquished, heroes and slaves, kings and conquerors and yet remained unchanged. Her Piscean attributes distilled into two immortal polished animated marbles of onyx, fixed on the present world but come from far far away.
And when we sleep, tethered to one another by magnetic limbs. Her head and hands vector my chest, my heart the transponder that brings them in. My fingers though blind, see every fascinating anomaly on the topography of her body. They shave off tensions twitching, and sculpt stresses sanded smooth by the magic in my palms. She melts into my angles like sea foam on rock, and my own clenches give way to tides and waves and wet whispers. And to each sea-cave I find, each cul-de-sac or juncture of her anatomy, there is a corresponding projection of my own sharp terrain that fits precisely the ebb and flow of her wondrous shapes. The exploration of our corresponding parts is an adventure, timeless but spatial, unguided but methodical, in sleep as well as awake, thoughtful yet without thought, and blind but with a clarity of vision which satisfies truth beyond understanding.
And what do I give in return to the sea nymph resplendent? What gifts do I bestow and what complement to her gracious arsenal? Something for her waves to crash against, a chest to cry on, or lay on, with a lock to pick, tender treasure contained within. And forever the still lagoon of my humble embrace.