I count in threads, the sorrow, the blaze and the glory of thy splendour, and feel all three. For my love shall be lost to the divulgence of innuendo and be cast to fury.
That you are caged by covenant in that which was, and with no weight to change circumstance – gives warrant to injustice. I shall not be your harlequin, but you will always be Aphrodite.
I live now in the ashes of that time passed, the lustre of an instance lost to the alacrity of grief and spared only by a memory.
The ties that bind cannot be drawn to parchment, forged to metal or be given to a word but that which is real, will find a way. And in that way, and of that memory, in convergence and safe from anguish, comes the arousal of a moment.
I gild each moment, softly unto the next and onward to the whispered tones of morning. The murmur of thought swells to imagination in flood of your countenance and I am lost to its tide.
In taste of fragrance and the sensuality of touch, beneath the taffeta of saffron and defined by form, I feel you. In surge and heave, drawn from breathless whispers and lost to blaze, we become one.
In the hushed tone of a promise once made, by the argent light of the fullest moon, I beseech that you come to me. This is my crusade, you are my grail and I would drink from thee time and again, and never grow old.
The sun now comes and my words soon to your eyes shall be. I will wait but three turns of a day and then be gone – for it is better to serve the lion and be lost to the sword than die of a broken heart.