Night of magic

Becky, how shall I remember you?
With red Irish roses behind you, climbing
trellis like wee folk in your parents' garden
while you smirked at my blundering?

I suppose not; I'd favor that entranced evening
you gave in to my entreaties, gave in to desire,
gave me yourself, crafted a spell and
fulsomely fed me to your inner fire.

That was the night we spent in the student
youth center, when two upper class advisors,
smiling like matchmakers, broke all the rules
and tucked us into a locked love nest.

Our first date in ordinary time: you had said
you saw us as platonic friends, honor bound,
and you were shocked when I told you
I had no desire to play in your sandbox.

When Jane spirited me from a game of pool
to meet you upstairs, I never envisioned
your enchanting declaration: "I've decided,
You're right, platonic isn't enough, if you ...."

Years have passed since I thought of you,
but there's been rare times when magic
made itself known to me as bright as when that
door locked behind them and you came to light.

Our tryst, the overnight room for visiting priests:
Single bed, sparse walls, dark, like your hair
spread on the pillow, framing your cameo
classic features, centered on pouting lips.

They say when mortals enter the Sidhe
Time slows and they emerge to lost years;
that night I had you, fey and fair - I would've
vested years to keep us held entrapped.

I do not recall why the love we made was not
enough to build a life; sad divergence overrode
that Vision of You: laid back, arms raised, drawing
me down, as night glimmered long unto dawn.