To My Southern Siren,
I know I'm one in a slew of suitors, but your song is like no other. You seem to set your sites on unsuspecting visitors, casting a seductive spell many never escape.
You first lured me here on misguided priorities in the summer of 2003. The thick, hot, humid air hit me like a wall of steam. Our first date went well. You even met my mother and she seemed to like you, too.
We rode your street cars and strolled your streets. I was in awe of a city steeped in such rich history, the haunting remnants of which tell your story, like the flamboyant facades boasting wealth and power. I wondered what stories your handsome, old oaks could tell and imagined the mighty Mississippi in Mark Twain's time.
Then there was the music. Oh, your music, New Orleans. You birthed the fathers of my favorite genres. With you as their muse, they found their groove, taming stanzas into legendary tracks, emulated ever since.
We danced and we dined. It was the most succulent seafood my lips had ever met. You satisfied my sweet tooth with your powdered sugar pastries and praline everything. And let's not forget the libations, decadent libations that left me in a stupor.
I'll admit, we moved fast. As the first days of autumn approached, I was falling in love, the smell of sweet olive enveloping us in a midnight breeze.
You had captivated me with your sultry song. I was under your thumb, so smitten I had forgotten my studies and lived only for you. My parents caught wind of our tumultuous affair and stepped in to pry me from your grasp.
It was barely September when they broke us up. I vowed to sneak back to you, but life kept us apart. Still you teased me, daring me to return.
Now, I'm back to finish what we started, wary of your sultry song.
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