Flaming red lips, clinking metal and glass, fingers slipping through pages turned,
Lazy curls falling down her nape, caressing what your fingers had dreamt of a million times.
Looking up you knew her kohl-lined gaze pierced right through and way beyond,
After all, it wasn’t a floating ghost you had opened the doors of your wounded soul to.
The endless talk hidden behind lit screens, a snug little corner, all you ever asked for,
Your imagination living stories that only your fingers could conjure up.
The moment of truth, that moment she had dreaded and you not,
The tables turned, with a blink of a veiled eye, vulnerabilities out on the lot.
A brave frontier? A naked fear? A clear blurred line, evidently obnoxious.
It wasn’t just your bubble anymore, but stark reality, in flesh and in bone.
You knew her story, you knew her hands, you knew her breath, you knew her kind.
But the only thing that you could fathom henceforth, was how much of you she knew or might.
All the hours after that you sat through, knowing you were running, running scared and running straight.
All the words you spewed that night, integrity forlorn, honesty denied.
Bits and pieces, your path traced by shattered facades or mere disappointment,
Were you running from her or your own shadow where your ghosts reside?
In holding up your weak tin walls, maybe you cracked open her steel-stoned vault,
Or maybe in her long line of breaches, you were the very last straw drawn.
Rest assured, she whispers poetry, she still draws dragons and traces stars,
A dragon she puts behind an armour now, an armour of everything that you were not.