She is made of the fires of Pompeii,
The waters of the Mediterranean,
The leaves of Tir na Nog.
She is the eye in my storming skies,
The confused time between dark and dawn,
Violet, calm, navy, bright and ordinary.
She is my Lorelei, my forest fairy.
Her voice paints my glasses in green and gold,
Hues of sunsets and city lights
Dance across the horizon.
Only I can see them.
The ocean is full of stars in direct sunlight,
And so too am I under her gaze.
She is the fires of Pompeii,
The waters of every ocean,
The whole forest of Tir na Nog.
To her,
I am a rusting penny,
A grain of rice sitting in the cupboard.
She is my Bridge of Sighs, she is La Seine,
And I am her bright red pen marking suggestions,
Never corrections.
She is my Lorelei, and I her nothing.
