Were I to put you into words,
I'd write your smile (more awkward than amused) in rhyme,
suspend the ebon passage of the night and
stay our hopefulclinging hands in time;
I'd tell of how we melted into black
among the silhouetted trees
and how the match's glow would
draw the
shadows back from
avid amber eyes and lifted brow.
Then might I set your name amongst the Dark
Lady and Shelley's ruined stone
to dwell immortal in the
whispered word
and stark black strokes across the barren page.
To tell the truth,
I am no fool who dares expect
my words apt to illume
your silhouette.