Her attention wandered from the raised dais, momentarily.
‘So what, give me this moment, life is precious’.
He had come up, a little chilled,
but otherwise mostly un-nibbled by scaly denizens, of the deep drowned land;
and now found himself, sat next to her
back seats, the theatre of life.
During a brief interlude they slipped out,
Perfection, just long enough, out of whatever character currently portrayed.
Stood, still dripping a bit, at the bar she had previously raised
he held not the next shows’ programme, nor blueprint, or deed of ownership.
None, but a mug of steaming cocoa,
cradled, supported by bones
and simple, vulnerable flesh,
but that now warmed and alive.
And at sometime he pulled out an imaginary blank sheet of paper,
kept carefully dry
and unwrapped that idea, from within a fold in his soul.
Thus, the interval minutes turned to hours.
Hours of maybe sitting…
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