She wears the midnight like a second skin, A crimson dress, a spark beneath her grin. One glass of wine; the room becomes her stage, Her laughter loosens something from its cage. She lets a compliment linger in the air, Then turns to find me watching from my chair. A stranger leans; she does not turn away. Her fingers brush his sleeve. I hear her say— But music takes the words. Across the light, Her eyes meet mine, still glittering with night. I love her fire. I will not call it mine, But even fire can recognize a line.