You spoke to me of wanderlust,
Of energy, of air,
But then you crumbled into dust.
We spoke of power, spoke of prayer,
How limitless our trust.
And then you stole away my share
Of sweet delight. You were a gust,
You were an unpredictable affair.
We traded names like stevedores,
And bantered late at night.
If you were mine, I was not yours:
The starlight, which was once too bright,
Was filtered through a gauze,
Confusing shadows, blinding sight
With broken words. You knew your cause,
Which was not mine. And this was spite.