She

She is the water to my fire,
who speaks with kindness,
And struts with grace,
A nymph at its finest,

But if you enquire,
i'd say she's not mine,
not mine to hold,
not mine for eternity,
and together we wont grow old,

but for her i'd lie through gritted teeth,
and falter upon a simper,
for she sets my soul ablaze,
and reconciles my sins,
 a puff of delirious haze,
cheek to cheek skin to skin,
but i am torn
are you the book or the vignette?