Three times, she loved.
The first was a mirror.
At the start of their affair
she paid him kisses
and he answered in kind
in time, she gave him more
and more of herself
thinking he would break
his crystal limits
but the problem with loving
a looking-glass man
he could only return the favor.

So the second time she fell in love
she decided, no holding back.
She paid with her fire,
tendered him the torch of her heart.
Though he did accept,
she now wishes she had known
he was a rerun
of his past he talked and talked
about better days, ex-lovers and all
that her fire died cold
while still in his hands.

And though there was a third
he may not really count.
He was summer and rain
never did he give tired roses,
but bouquets of carnations,
surprise visits and conversations.
She would have told him
he was the love she had always desired
but when she reached into the pockets
of her once-glowing affections
she could but blush and fumble.
Empty. It seemed
she was all used up.