A live wire
And faux fine gold
runs through.
And everything I am
comes down to you.
Tragic arcs of burning blue
for another moment
spent with you.

You're an arc for the instant.
A movement,
a spark.
Alive for the moment,
a setting sun for me.
You are for the second
a summer burning,
a life leaving,
and I starve to be
the arc in your eyes.

Penned by my hand on the 8th of Khepary, in the year 107 MA.