Piacular

His hands were soft, but you’d expect that from a man who never knew what it was like to ever get his hands dirty through hard labour.
 
He was a man of vast intellect that made me feel like a little girl whenever his piercing blue eyes would survey me, and I felt exposed and somewhat unearthed as if there was more that he withheld as we exchanged greetings, and strategised about this & that.  
 
We shared a mutual love for music, though he not as eclectic as I in genre.
 
His aroma was always fresh, and he always seemed good enough to eat and I’d sit across from him in the boardroom whilst undressing him, and creating imagery in my mind that wasn’t exactly prim & proper, and I should’ve penned more time into his calendar for us to catch up more oft as he requested when we first encountered one another, some years ago.  
 
I’m amazed he didn’t quite make it to the altar with her, instead opting to tinker with his cars, and travel from hotel to hotel whilst delivering his speeches in that plum accent, and I miss seeing his gentle vegan existence, and those piercing blue eyes because those blue eyes couldn’t tell lies; even if he tried.  
 
And if I ever took a palliative pathway, I’d want to know the touch of his expertise as his hands were soft, caring & gentle, even if for just one last time as we peer into one another’s soul, knowing he has not a combative bone in his body.