"Don't be frightened if I cry
and my shoulders shudder," she
breathes. The lavender of the sky
droops above a dim-winter's sea,
and just as the words are out
I graze her cheek like a blade of grass
drops its dew. "I'd be a true lout --",
her fingers of orange topaz --
gleamed in moonlight -- stop my lips short.
"Don't." Teardrops roll slowly down
in a display apt for an old court
show; such a sadness in her tone.