In silver she rises as you’re falling with the sun; Poseidon’s sweet daughter with the ocean in her eyes and vanilla on her skin. She’s a touch too cool to be charmed by Hephaestus’s son — she’s a liar and a thief, or writer in today’s parlance. Her coffee is as bitter as her truth; her love as fleeting as your flickering flame.

In silence she rises as you’re falling with the walls. You burned tower after tower but found no princess, only petty arson in the ash. She becomes a moth to your white-hot charm, each drop of sweat reminding her the consequence of closeness. She knows words aren’t the only thing you have worth stealing; she’s found a more valuable target of misappropriation.

In steam she rises as you’re falling. Between the sheets you will become as gods. Heat twists sticky limbs and tangles sheets to damp knots. She won’t be there tomorrow. You’ll think of her every time rains are followed by a slight hint of vanilla in soft petrichor, and long for other words beloved by poets.