She speaks
in darling riddles.
Contradiction is spilled on
her windswept sleeve,
mystery fits her
dainty hand
like a tailored glove.
Those eyes,
clad so dangerously
beneath puffs of
seductive smoke,
bait our curiosity.
We tried to understand,
we became
invaders to her
razzle-dazzle imagination
but were chased out.
Sparks of her vexation
hot on our desperate heels
evoking exhilarating threats
that only succeed to
extend further invitation.
We try to sink
our audacious teeth
into everything that is her,
everything that might be her,
and we weep
because she
can’t be bothered
to bite us back.
Waist-deep now in
a pool of our own
frustrated tears,
because
despite our
fervent efforts
she yet remains,
properly enigmatic.
Some call it red 