[Oh gosh, this is nerve-racking. Equius wipes the back of his forearm across his forehead, clearing away the sweat, then flips the book open. The poem he chooses is about three-quarters of the way through the book.]
I've never seen the sea.
And yet, I don't need to, because my matesprit reminds me of the sea. It's the way his horns echo the shape of the waves, or the way his hair lays in perfect dark commas across our pillow, like a shoreline undisturbed for miles. It's the way his grey eyes reflect light when he laughs, like Prospit's light across the water, or the way they'll turn indigo someday, like Derse's light sinking into the waves.
I've never seen the sea. And yet, I see it every day, everytime he smiles.
[Equius stops reading and glances up, his face a tormented rictus of nerves. He's sweating profusely now.]
action
I've never seen the sea.
And yet, I don't need to, because my matesprit
reminds me of the sea.
It's the way his horns echo the shape of the waves,
or the way his hair lays in perfect dark commas across
our pillow, like a shoreline undisturbed for miles.
It's the way his grey eyes reflect light when he laughs,
like Prospit's light across the water,
or the way they'll turn indigo someday, like Derse's light
sinking into the waves.
I've never seen the sea.
And yet, I see it every day, everytime
he smiles.
[Equius stops reading and glances up, his face a tormented rictus of nerves. He's sweating profusely now.]
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