I walked the path a thousand times and remembered how deeply I loved him. The path was wood paved and green. The last Indian Summer saw us making love atop a Colocasia leaf. We slipped into each other like a gentle touch slips into memories we claim forever.
I want him again, in the way that jungle leaves want water during endless dry Summers. But he left me standing at the grave side, alone.
I return to the path each day. Some days I exist inside hope. Other days inside childish expectation. Maybe he will be waiting for me there, beside the Colocasia leaves.