It in the lines and curves
of the syllables of her name
written in cursive flames of poetry
he found himself lost
in the hopeless tragedy
of ill fated fairy tales
and humorless comedies
of suicidal love affairs

and the thought of her smile
made him cower
to the shy dark corners
of silence and solitude
where he quietly dreamt
of what fury and flavor
her lips bleed when locked
in the eternal moment
of loves first kiss

and he blushed a little
as she slithered under the wants
of his skin
and he felt short of breath
and quick of pulse
as he imagined what witchcraft
she could weave
with her fingertips
gliding over his skin
and through his ribs
before settling her hand
over his trembling heart
and claiming it as her own

and he would glady
give her his heart
and his sins
and his flesh
and his soul
for what good could he do
with any of himself
but play the part of a fool
in the presence of the stars
beyond the heaven he found
in the endless song of her eyes

and on the blank pages
he kept under his sheets
and cover of the blanketed night sky
he wrote the syllables
of her name in cursive flames
and drifted through dreams
of love under the bloom
and shape of her smile