She gazed out from her cave as the man rowed by,
A roguish look in his pirate's eye,

And yet, when he came, she did not withdraw,
As he sprang from his boat to the desolate shore,

And rose twixt them such vision of desire,
That each was consumed by the other's fire,

For what is a man, if he loves not?
And what, a woman, if she be forgot?

And each they sought, in the other's embrace,
That languid, loving, longed for place,

Where may be seen, and felt, and heard,
A look, and a touch, and a whispered word...

Was he the morning you remember,
with coffee, warm in bed, and the sun shining on the water?
Did he fill your eyes, with his lopsided smile?

Could you picture a future, could you feel his absent touch?
Did you glimpse him in the face of others, seek to catch and hold the feeling, all too quickly gone?

Was he there in the hollow dawn, in the empty spaces between the words?

And was he the answer,
to a question unasked?
Could you have loved him, had he loved you not?

For you are scribed in violet ink on the lacuna in his heart.

And he loves you.