my blood runs hot when you're around,
your touch turns my skin to flames.
your voice chills the air and calms my thoughts,
uttering forgotten names.

who could blame a simple boy for loving
so completely and without consideration;
the portrait girl, with lips of red,
who conjured conflagration.

a tale so hopeless did never end so sweet,
as in a dream, said fair lady, rushed him off his feet.
but it is a sad and known truth,
that the night-time show
always ends with darkness.