37

A skirting dusk lies fallow 'twixt my feet.
I see no nighttime eyes to scrutinize
My love. Or, least, they gaze in wait. How neat
The foreign ground, pecked through with cautious eyes.
I think her sun is fading from my sight.
But... I'd be wronged to write these thoughts as fact;
One hand in mine, her other to the night,
While both we play to tunes of her skilled tact.
I'd fall again, again, and evermore.
To speak, to move; the two are intertwined
Yet distant still as waves that meet the shore.
I stride sans mind in search of hope to find.
I know I care; that much is certain here,
But to what end? To what committed fear?