She walks where twilight drinks the tide,
A wraith of gold the dusk can’t hide.
Her hair like halos forged in flame,
Cascades in curls, too wild to tame.

Each step she takes is poetry drowned,
Soft curves that echo without sound.
A siren carved from moonlit prayer,
With ruby lips and skin laid bare.

Her eyes two lanterns, cold and bright,
Burn brighter than the stars at night.
They’ve watched me weep from far away,
Then vanished with the break of day.

She whispers to the waves, not me,
Wrapped in silk and secrecy.
She kisses winds I cannot hold,
She wears her sorrow draped in gold.

No cross, no bell, no chapel hymn
Could ever cleanse my thoughts of sin
The sin of wanting breath to breath,
Beside her, tangled underneath.

The sea between us groans and sways,
It drinks my voice, it steals my days.
Yet still I beg the aching blue:
If she must drown then let me too.

Let my arms be storm and shore,
Let my hands trace every lore
Of spine and sigh, of hip and hush
Of blood made fast in midnight’s blush.

But no; she dances, distant, cursed,
A queen whose thirst is never thirst.
And I just bone in burning skin,
A man denied what should have been.

It should be me with her; no more.
Not dreaming through this ocean’s roar.
Let death or dawn unchain this plea
It should be her... and it should be me.