You were bold before I knew you, before I knew any other thing about you. The first thing I noticed was how bright your scarlet lips were against the black-and-white palette of you, beckoning bold stares. You blew into the room like a petal blown to the sound of the wind in the trees, like you were dancing to the light in your wineglass. You ignored my hand, touched my shoulder, flashed a sweet secret smile and glided off. You flowed with the conversation, twirling through rooms, taking partners for moments at a time before leaving them dizzied, listless, lost. I did not speak to you again, I could not dance, but I stared boldly, eyes caressing what hands could not see, trailing you like the scents of musk and peach wine, clinging hopeful to your hem. I remember just before I left, you pressed your lips--no longer so red but still more bold--to my ear, breathed light and song and life into me, left your scent in my hair and, before I could think to show you what you'd done, you had disappeared, like smoke in the darkness.