Fifty pulses per minute, at rest.
Burning sapphire, my heartbeats
trace a syncopated arrhythmia
on the chart.
Lively, my love keeps it molten.
Hot, flowing gemstone that singes
all but the girl who’s my setting.
Light flares within.
How did I live before this?
Posted to dVerse Poets Pub, Quadrille night. The magic word is “burn.”