Mistress-at-Arms

For years she had been a pastime for him,
Arousing sin mechanically,
By the feel of her hair, the touch of her skin:
Yet he scarcely recalled her middle name.
Perhaps it was a male thing, the cold fire
That turned emotions into lies, deceiving
Long enough that, in the meeting of their eyes
The future was pre-signified, foretold
As he’d prophesised: hadn’t she agreed?
We will always be this way, always sort-of today
Echoed simulacra, sating desires
                                             Until just now: she’d embraced him, breathing dreams,
                                             Transcending time: weaker men would cry.
                                             He checked. She’d ten seconds, till he’d fly.