"I could write you a poem", I said,
hoping against all hope.
"And what would I do with that?"
she reached for a cigarette.

"Perhaps it would make you happy?"
"Is that what you want?" she said.
"To see me happy?"
"Moreso than to see the morrow." I pleaded.

"What about what I want?"
The ember glowed highlighting her cheeks.
"Name it." my hand reaching for hers uneasily.
"I want you........(she smiled to herself) to go away."

It has been many a night,
many a dream has come to pass.
Her skin a reflection of the sun
as it brushes amber stained glass.

The softness of her lips,
petals of the sweetest flower.
The aching of these memories
ceaseless every hour.

The temper of a hurricane
meeting a tornado in a bar.
The passion of a new moon
even with its celestial scars.

Time has made her a spectre
it is my dreams she haunts.
I left without an argument
I gave her what she wants.

Cursed am I to exile
to ponder what she is.
A beauty yet unrivaled,
what was and never is.