She feels more akin to a silhouette
Than she does skin, blood, and bone
She is outlined by shadows, silk, and lace
A queen perched upon a carven throne

She feels more akin to a bead of sweat
Than she does water, raindrop, or wine
She rises with the temperature in the room
Reinventing what it means to glisten and shine

Yet, I shall not jump to illusions this day
I lie in wait of a more tempestuous fate
The dancing her figure does throughout my mind
Never allows my heart chance to acclimate

She feels more akin to a midnight dream
Than she does morning or afternoon
She is beyond the setting of suns amidst horizon lines
The waxing and waning of the palest of moons