Oh, how she misses the crumpled silk sleeves,

With their shine and glimmer against smooth skin.

Her soft hair which she left unpinned,

And the soft cushions of velvet seats

In which she sat during times yet to cease.

The wrinkles in her dress that lay so thin,

Allowing waves of perfume to drift like the sounds of a violin

Into the solemn, rainy streets.

Through broken glasses and red-stained carpet,

Her desperate tears fall.

The smoke whispers in the dark

About her heart’s committed arson and the scarlet

Lettering upon the wall.

For in her dance with smoke and broken bones she left with him her mark.