There’s a charming night; her air seductive,
her beauty blinding- she strives through pain; writes a
story with a dried-out pen; writing a poem with no lines.

She is the night; her skin is brown sugar, her eyes are
filled with black galloping horses, that defies any oblivion,
her lips are red as the blushing passion of youthfulness.

Her wrongs in my eyes are a pale memory;
she is a penny with its head and tail- whichever side she
falls on, her worth affords all of my attention.

Tonight, her touch is like a paintbrush on my skin;- she
tries to paint a new moon- reflecting her smile’s shine;
she’s a candle that pierces at the darkness, and light starts to
bleed out, filling the room with an echo of, ‘her’ and only ‘her.’

She’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal;
she’s a fatal misery- full of forgetfulness; the memory
of her I try to make stay. To live with her is a pain, without
her is a shame;- she’s truly perfect, so perfect she feels unreal
—sadly, she is only, and remains just a dream.