Go back… Three’s paces.
They’re doing it wrong…
Nameless — His call to you.
The tone — Formless but familiar.
Senseless — As I play through.
Not one — A beat dissimilar.
At a table in a clearing — trees in flock, surround.
He sips, and rests. Laurels — still, upon his crown.
It’s your turn, he laughs. To move, or to be found.
The coupling detaches. The thatching despatches.
Their breathing matches. He wont back down.
Not until she asks for it.
...sounds familiar, doesn’t it?