She tip-toes softly through my thoughts, when I am least expecting her.
She has no need of invitation... she is always somewhere, there
to tantalise imagination...
weave exquisite fantasy;
a beautiful, ephemeral rainbow in my thinking... constantly.

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts; whispering siren songs to me.
Tempting me away... to lose myself out on her silver sea;
to drift, beset by daydreaming; becalmed...
no haven, waiting me;
too soon... condemned to run aground on rocks of cold reality.

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts; summoned by so many things...
a half-remembered melody... soft apple blossom in the spring;
a velvet-petalled, dew-kissed rose...
a golden sunset in the West...
a gently whispering evening breeze... the softest summer rain's caress.

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts; always... just too far away
to touch... to hold... to murmur words of love, my mind wants me to say.
Infatuation of imagination...
I cannot resist...
Too late, she drifts away again... like sun-kissed, morning meadow mist.

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts, no matter what the time of day
or night;
she dances through my mind, bewitchingly... but never stays
for long enough for me to capture her in silken webs of dreams...
but is that then, the fantasy?
Is she, not quite what she would seem?

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts... perhaps, not really meant to be
much more, than just a sweet illusion...
just my mind, reminding me
however much, we may desire... there are some things that cannot be...
someone... something, just out of reach...
the funeral pyre of vanities.

She tip-toes softly through my thoughts, when I am least expecting her.
She doesn't wait to be invited... she knows that I want her, here.
For here, I can be with her... that is all that there can ever be;
the fleeting shadow of a love that never happened...
tragically.