A whimsical, completely random decision really,
She was tired of being her tonight.
Look at her,
Draped in red silk and satin,
Adorning her lustrous chestnut locks,
Cascading with a harmonious flow,
Reflecting the dim lights,
Like a soft cloud drenched in the dusk.
She is a typical beauty—no doubt.
A sweet voice too,
Basked with honey and warmth and kindness.
She reminds you of an old piece,
That you always wanted to play,
But never could,
Or perhaps did,
But the result never were satisfactory enough.
You are used to have her in your arms,
Twirling your hair round her petite fingers,
With whispers of a secret,
And lyrics of a forbidden song.
But I see that you realise she's different today.
Her mouth is arched into a disapproving frown,
The lipstick is slightly smudged,
She has crushed the cigar
Between her fingers,
The ashes are on the floor.
She seems to be saying something,
The glass slips and shatters,
That wine is spilled all over,
Like freshly drawn blood.
Good things happen.
Sometimes bad ones.
Sometimes love is a red rose bathed in fresh dew drops,
Sometimes it is a lilac,
Standing alone perhaps,
Waiting someone to appreciate it.