Eyes are twitching
Lips are pulsing
Hands are still
And eyes are looking
My fingertips touch the bleached white page
And feel the smooth surface ready to be laced
A pen dipped in ink makes its way between my hand
It tries not to forget how we once could throw a hex
It wiggles between my thumb and my index
It begins with a line
No straighter than a vine
It begins with a curve
No rounder than Arthur’s table
It begins with a dance
In a country close to France
Where miss chance sings her ritual trance
And begins to notice the hidden glances
A fair lady steps in
From a land far or near
She’s mysterious you’ll hear
That’s the first thing that’s clear
A dark knight gallops in
From a journey with a violin
He makes music you see
But there’s more in the case
Miss chance makes them dance
Oh, what a night of romance
The day breaks and he’s gone
She mounts her own horse and knowns nothings wrong
They catch up to each other
Chasing light and fair weather
They decide not to part
Not this time, nor ever.
“I love you a lot
My Sir Lancelot.”