Reading her horoscope

My fair maiden,
but never mine to be had.
Lover of my soul,
mistress of my desires,
vials of tears line the shelves
of her heart,
tears long dried
leaving sorrow solid on the glass,
it catches the light
through the ancient windows
and casts rainbows across the walls.
Rainbows that dance across poetry
written in ink, written in passion
by those that came before her.
My world traveler,
the lover of my brother,
tamer of wild beasts,
wanderer of her own path.
Her eyes sparkle with mischievous ideas,
as she speaks the sweetest of words
in a voice forged of fire.
I once sat on her door stoop,
wrote magic words in the light of her window
and cried tears of loss
beneath prayer flags spread across her room.
I have drank with her,
I have drank of her,
and though my thirst is never quenched
there is only so much we can stand
before we must share a farewell embrace,
a kiss,
and a last longing look.

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