It was his sin, his pleasure

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It was his sin, his pleasure,
our gazes danced in the shadows,
even though he wore a ring, a token of love,
his promises were woven into ballads.

On moonlit nights, quiet whispers,
his lips found no path or restraint,
in the touch of skin, in golden dreams,
I was fire, he, an eternal poison.

He didn't care about the world, or the judgement of others,
life was a river where love flowed,
each furtive encounter, a moment of fulfilment,
where the hours died, in sweet agony.

It was the echo of a song, a hidden desire,
an endless story, a labyrinth,
her heart beat with absolute love,
even though reason screamed, destiny was different.