Lyric

I drift through dusk in tailored grace

A murmur lost in midnight’s lace

A trace of spice upon the air—

Refined, elusive, debonair

You sense a presence, not quite near

A whisper drawn too soft to hear

But every breath I choose to lend

May stir the calm, and gently bend

I am the wolf they never name

With scent composed like candle flame

A gentleman, with shadowed smile

Who lingers just a little while

Conquer, nor to claim—

But to leave behind a name

No overture, no grand display

Just notes that bloom and drift away

Upon your skin, my soul will blend—

A fragrance shaped by how we end

Too much, and all the art is lost—

A single touch defines the cost

Discretion makes desire bloom—

And quietude becomes perfume

I am the wolf of silken thread

With every glance, a word unsaid

A passing thought, a fleeting flame—

Yet some will long to speak my name

Not for love, nor fleeting bliss—

But for the scent that ends like this