Smoothly I glide,

A tender lotus on water

My silken skirts and sleeves brushing the ground

The ground over which petals and scattered and crushed beneath my slender foot.

You ache to see beauty before you and impatiently you wait for me to turn my face upon you.

I do, slowly, sweetly.

My kohl-rimmed eyes lowered demurely over my fan,

You look entranced and I look down at you from beneath and close my fan gently.

My crimson stained lips curved up in a hint of a smile.

I am a ghost.

I am the object of your lust, the woman commanding your attention, your respect, your fascination.

But I am not.

You already feel these. I do not know for certain, but it's possible you have a wife you love dearly, mistresses you don't notice, a girl who inhabits your thoughts.

I am not her, but I am her.

I am a fantasy, an illusion you cannot grasp, even for a moment. You think you feel these things for me that you might really feel for others. I do not know.

I understand my role.

You may watch me dance and delight in it.

You may hear my song and find peace in it.

You are free to lose yourself in fanciful lyrics and find vision in them.

You are free to confide, to talk of worldly things and find amusement in it.

You may eat your fill at this table, drink plenty I serve, and should you so wish find pleasure in my bed.

But you may never possess me.

Not yours to command

Not yours to obey

Because as often as I speak of love,

Mine was never meant for you.