My Bilitis, you are most beautiful in candlelight. Your
lips red like wine, hair blue-black like the night sky, and
your eyes glimmer like the moon on the river.

No living soul may see us that night. Come morning, we
stay hidden under sheets like wearing one chemise. Your
whispers fall on my lips.

The sun rises, and you sit so I may follow the shape of
your shadow on the wall with lead. May historians find it
and know of us.

When you leave and I am too far away, press kisses to the
top of your hands from me. I will keep my windows closed
so the soft winds shall not steal away your memory.