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@lady-archivist
He needs to hear it. He needs to hear these words as if carved from white marble, and within the unbelievable ability to pluck them from the air like so many roses garnered from the side of an ivy-strewn Tower; the Glory of the throbbing Heart like a shining sun at the tip of this tower, and readily-formed inside the bed of Roland’s immortal spirit. He hangs on every word as like a desperate survivor, clasping his hands together a’fore his ragged breast; his breathing short and never-made to step ‘pon a proverbial crack.
Yea, were his words coarse and direct but nevertheless necessary for fits of cat spittle and delicate hissing, of shirking sensitive affections and dancing ‘round the topics like faery rings. He needs to hear thus, and deflates suddenly at her earnest appearance for defeat.
“Art thou a Poet,” doth he argue, and reaches, with her bodily permission, to clasp one of her hands within the both of his callused own. His face is starlight, the Moon-side of careless, open safety. “Forget the abuse of compliance and the distasteful worry for offense. A Poet need naught concern thyself with paltry pettiness, and the numerations of broken arguments. We hath done thus,” dost he remind, and the corner of his mouth ticks: the First Meeting was a petty argument, and the reason forgotten.
“Tell me,” pleads he, soft as a dandelion seed. “What dost thou feel for me?”
