Repose beneath the stars that amulet your identity,
for your shine will forever subsist
in my twilight.
Who readied the signal fire?
The ghost that plays melody in our bedroom!
If our passion was a piano and I alone processed the power
to hit the exact notes;
The precise notes to expose you’re heart to me
...would you ignore the reckless sound and tantrums
of ignorant elders recessing,
as you sit at the back of the ballroom trying to hear me sing,

"cloying and loving deity in her image
why irritate me tonight…
I am no saint
I’ve shed no blood of men
only onslaught in her name, I approve of."

The only contest I venture in is the agonizing gaze into the mirror,
I detest every single hour I am absent from her.

Still, after all this time:
your spine is visible in the moonlight,
droplets of seraphic sweat speeding down your arched back, trying
to escape our indecency.
Your cheeks carry a pink tint,
the abomination barely visible upon your porcelain skin.
Now cold air exhaled as we come together
shrouding us in intruding mist.
This is our moment,
and ours only.

So please, lay your heart on my bed
because girl I'm beat:
You merge days and knights,
a royal fusion technique I've yet to master.
I wonder,
if I continue to stroke you as an artist would a masterpiece -
would peace then become my master,
and all my past lacerations suddenly heal by your innocence.
Or would you remain throned,
queen of my soul...