a fevered, fragile saint behind the glass.

I watch the heavy, dark mahogany wine

of deep red hair fall down in velvet mass.

Your beauty is an ache, a breathless thing,

a shadow cast across a candlelit room.

A haunting, pale, and ruinous glow

that floods the corners of my living tomb.

You sit reclined, a picture of repose,

a trapped, celestial bird too sick to fly.

Shadows drape across your collarbone,

while heavy sorrows dim your eye.

A trace of fever blushes on your cheek

and stains the fullness of your lips

Yet even a body so seemingly frail,

could crumble empires at her fingertips.

Two jade pools against your golden skin,

your striking eyes of sea-born chrysolite,

whose warmth defies the winter of my heart

and pierce the curtains of its night.

You are the burning center of my mind,

an ethereal, sick, and holy thing.

A deeper grace I know I'll never find,

a sweetness to which even angels cling.

I yearn to touch your fragile, aching skin,

to shield you from the malice of this life,

to guard the sacred sanctuary within