There was something
About the way she grinned at me,
Her teeth gleaming in the half-light,
Candle flames and wine
Threatening to usurp the senses.

There was something that told me
That this was not the time
Though perhaps the place,
Lost to all but those who did not wish to find it.

She bleeds
(Ever so lightly)
And my heart unfurls
Such as the blackest sail in the deepest eye
To receive her sacrament

She sighs
And like so much smoke
(The calm before the murder)
A wave breaks gently upon the edges
Of sanity

The fluid rebirth
Of an age-old riddle.
Burning the edges
Of a perfumed envelope.
These do not reclaim balance.

Nothing now suspends me.
Watch,
And wait.
See how deeply I may fall
Before I am caught,
Her web cast beneath me,
Allowing me not the sweet rapture of death.

In time
Some may wander by,
And find my remains crouched
In a posture of acrimonious defiance.

If only.

If I could tourniquet my praise.
If I could breathe dry the ocean,
Mending the lacerations
That mar my lips and stain my heart.
Perhaps she would not pierce so deeply,
Baring my essence with a half-hearted gesture.
Perhaps she would not laugh so easily,
Giving voice to the soul of whim,
Which,
If she only knew
Would tear this world asunder.

Penned by my hand on the 21st of Severin, in the year 167 MA.