She dreams in scarlet, of far away lands;
Of heroes muscled, impeccably dressed.
She dreams of a charming Renaissance's man,
and murmurs sweet nothings into my chest.
Her perfect lips quiver; red as her face.

Fan blades mock me as I stare into space.

She dreams of torn bedposts with shattered frames,
Broken by passion released uncontrolled.
She moans in her sleep and whispers a name.
My lips start to quiver, matching her own.
That name gifts my ears such discordant tones.

Were I its owner, my heart might be whole.

Slowly, my pulse commences to waver.
I ask, fearing what answers might portend..

                         If I were to move, perchance to wake her,
                         would she regret her dulcet dreaming's end?