She loves poetry read softly
by candlelight to classical music
and Dead Can Dance,
and dinners prepared by passionate
tongue and steady eye
after sneaking early from work,
and dancing in the night air,
in spite (because) of the
watching frost rings of the moon,
and her dragon’s breath spouting
with each laugh.
To think she is mine would be a lie.
She is hers, and but on loan to me.
But I adore her freedom borrowed into
my embrace.
