Fair Trade
(Because the course to true love doesn't always run smoothly.)
Time for sleep.
The day we've left behind, the dusty road,
Were long and arduous.
I lay our bedrolls on the grasses
Where the dew will not collect in early dawn.
I go about this task in silence,
Sensing, knowing this to be your wish;
Wondering, as you build the fire,
What dark and private musings
Hold your tongue this night.
Ah, yes, the ritual begins
As rasping sounds of stone on sword
Recite a song I know by heart.
I draw quill over parchment
And find the ink has dried
Before its tint could fill this emptiness.
Enraptured by your silhouette,
I have misplaced the time. My mind
Is now as dry of thought
As is this quill of ink
Which, without permission,
Has abandoned my trembling hand.
Your performance ceases
Lest the honing of your best defense
Make dust from steel.
And the pounding of my heart
Is deafening in the stillness.
I wait for a word,
For a glance, for a smile, yet none come.
No. You will not be generous this night.
So I stretch out by the fire
As weary waking hours
Begin to slowly creep
Toward another glaring morn.
Then, in a rare moment
Of night's suspended silence,
Your voice, ragged
From lack of use, calls to me.
But, feigning sleep,
I let the silence linger.