Spun in colors of such rich fervor
even the camera doesn’t deserve her.
It starts with eyes so warm,
like her soft red fire storm.
A hue of invitation set on her lips,
for but one moment to a kiss.
The smile suggests multiple title names,
she picked best; we stroke the flames.
In the rapture of heaven scent bliss
so gentle to trace finger upon rara avis.
The dance would be the Fires at Midnight,
when every touch would be an eternal rite.
Sadly a goodbye touch will come,
then back to where it was from…