The words I wrote about her on a glossy paper,

are now lost into the infinite ashes.

I should have listened to them,

They told me she is no less than a fire.

I searched through the ashes,

To find a teeny part of my secluded heart.

I found nothing but a souvenir,

Of our long walk in a garden full of bushes.

We had walked and talked and talked,

I had talked too much but said too little.

I had noticed her through the corner of my eyes,

She had heard too much but listened too little.

But I knew she was no campfire,

All light and heat for a night,

And willing to be left after.

She was something more, something bright.

She was like a hearthfire, not too attractive

But enough alluring to woo a man.

Underneath she was like a warm red coal,

That burns for a long, long while.

Call me a fool or an imbecile,

But she was like a waterfall of sparks,

Pouring off the edge of an iron held by an enchantress

Falling into my hollow heart and melting it.