Primrose path

I've had a girl who told me because she was wont to be led down the primrose path, she refused me. And she viewed the world with rose-tinged lens but she can't find that within me.

She had told me in a cool Yorkshire autumn's night. As we were leaving the theatre after enjoying The Fall Of The House Of Usher. The gravel beneath our feet set into an arrhythmic grind by our footsteps.

So I understood her in my own unique way. That she was afraid to be led astray by me, a hypocrite. That she would one day realise nothing is as it seems. That she was being deceived by me, a liar.

She said she was confused by the play. A story within a story. She didn't understand the literary device was a reflection of our lives.

While I don't let morals constraint my thoughts but they control my deeds. I never did have my intents on her. While I mock the living I respect the dead and dying. I never intended for her to agree.

She allowed the situation to fester. We kept quiet most of the way home. The route along Heslington Road was lined with the orange halos from sodium lamps. After passing fairfax House, the path turns right towards Catherine House and beyond it, darkness.

Do not, as some ungracious pastors do,
Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven,
Whiles, like a puff'd and reckless libertine,
Himself the primrose path of dalliance treads
And recks not his own rede.