In this room, she was the worldspun.
The walls so sealed,
The space so tight and stuffy.
She sat in a clearing, in a crowded room.
She stood mingling.
She didn't know me.
The rope in my guts hooked to her scent.
My body dragged into the opening.
A blissful teen, fair sheen.
Lips tangled, speech flowed absolute in concepts mature.
Grinding then, as clear as the absence of it now.
The born player of plays could not help himself.
In his performance he weaved the tale for his fellows.
A short story, told with fascination and white fire.
For he felt it strong.
But as that fire burned on the beach and the tides changed,
The waves swept away the flame.
So that when his lover returned to him,
She was a whole woman and he had not known her.
He revealed himself by chance,
For a mentor and a man he loved had bested his demons.
That all the King's therapists could not.
So to tell again his story was almost instinct.
But it was also trust.
They've opened places in each other that for whole lives have stayed hidden.
He fears the future is not a thing - because there is nothing left they have not shared.
And she won't tell him what has her so afraid, yet she holds still.
The absence of grinding.
The absence of fucking.
The absence of loving.
Inside he's doing all of this.