Act III, Scene i, line a hundred and thirty-something
A warm glow illuminates the side of her face
he watches her enamoured, captured by each word
breathed across the table, creeping across to clutch
his heart with invisible strings spoken by a master marionette.
She found him penetrating her with a gaze
intentional like bolded words declaring today’s headlines
making her look towards her hands fiddling with his attention.
He’d found her although she wasn’t lost.
He’d claim her although she wasn’t a prize.
He’d play her although she isn’t a game.
Fortunate to have another to throw his heart towards
he hopes in silence, his heartstrings in song.
He is fortunate, she reciprocates,
calliope of the heart; blown, erect.
They found it,
before I knew what I had lost.