You stride into the room like Artemis;
beauty more right of birth than blessing,
warrior's gait remorseless yet imbued with
the subtle fragrance of womanhood.
Like a ship's drift, to stand in your wake
is to watch so many tiny details dancing,
almost a sacred phenomenon, reminiscent
of a thousand golden fireflies.
Indeed, fire could only describe you;
a name paper can't record for prosperity,
all too quickly crumbling to ash.
Instead I gladly became your torch-bearer,
cart wheeling my burden through the night,
inking out syllables with smoke and flame.
A bittersweet pity all fire needs fuel,
your fierce appetite incapable of savouring
my sacrifice for too long.
Was it a week or a year before your eyes
caught the horizon, twisting it effortlessly
in your greed, tipping me off the edge.
With a breeze at your back you sailed away,
but I still see them, those ghostly letters
written upon the empty night air.