Tell me, how on earth did you manage to be such a fine thief?

You’ve stolen your particular scent — that soft shade of smell from the twilight fog and echo of cigarettes, cinnamon and coffee in my room.
You’ve stolen that pale blue colour for your eyes from the morning skies, when the horizon is unfolding in that gentle moment of sunrise, and from those sad coffeeweed flowers, which grow beneath my window so dusty and lonesome.
You’ve stolen the smile from the moon, which licks your skin with cold light every time she sees you, and from my neighbour’s cat, so similar to its Cheshire cousin.
You’ve stolen your deep and soft voice from some kind of smoking siren, experienced, seductive and willing to roar pirate ballads, when there’s nobody to hear them.

Beside all these crimes, you somehow managed to steal my heart — gently, tenderly, coming uninvited from the depths of my dreams. Thou shall pay for this, I swear.
The most unexpected problem is the fact, that I do not want my heart back that much. Leave it.

Yet you’d better teach me, master thief, for there’s the only revenge for your crimes I am longing for.
You’ve stolen my heart. I want to steal yours in return.

And thou do not deserve my mercy. 

© citywatch, 2004-2008.