On the edge of madness she held my hand and said:
"The best things aren't always perfect, do you know that?"

Rose tinted papyrus and silver parched ink,
words written; heart stretched to a brink,
and I sought to picture, yet she peers through;
smiles and sparkles at every word said to.

Bright yellow dressed in a sleepless blue,
sometimes pale pink brushed in maroon.
Haunting and decorous; a palette uneven,
drawn infinitely close and I; completely smitten.

"More than an offering of affection;
a heedless and selfless dedication."

"Amidst the pleasantries and the cups of wine,
lies a desire for an ending; clement and bold."

Paths paved and discords leveled,
street lights dimmed as worries heaved;
in between moments; the air relentless.
I see a table prepared at dusk's end.

"As wishful as it is painful; only restful wished I be,
as I perched unattended; joy amiss with a cup of tea."

An endeavour to grasp the ardent;
trying to sooth the seething, the fervent-
-ly glimmering stars cleaved and concised,
misgiven and juvenile; yet far hind-tarded:

"The fool burned trying; and the starlet free."

And here I recon; I concede-
readily and consequently,
in admiration; in recede:
captivated, inadvertently.

Smitten and bewitched; I'd stay,
expedient and unruly:

"My sight I have bargained; all for one seething spectacle."

With this I stray, unlighted and aphonic;
I leave my sentiment in silence.