She leaves, in silence, fingerprints
in silver on my soul, so when,
in a final exhale of mist I expire
they will know I have met my desire.
Marked I lie, beneath a silver moon.
Dewy beads I cry, for a dryad
that had to die, like leaves that turn
to the rain that is coming
I raise my cheek to the night.
When she has fled, that
wraith of breath born from a mire,
I gasp as ice encases my body
freezing the loss in place.
What winter nights might say
if only I could listen, what would
the bustle of the trees speak
If only this burning flesh would
cool it’s own desire.
Perhaps my inner needs will be met
when silver moons beget
my hearts fire.