A look.

One look.

A glance can bespeak more than a ballad hundreds of meters long. There is a sultry light play in Linda's large, wide eyes. In Kisling, it is the curious offwhite of nails that draw over the crinkling pages of his tomes, expressly grown to be harvested for insideous purposes only Kisling himself knows- though they've all got them, less than noble ambitions. It isn't simply the asanine professor.

Rosaline's rosiness, the healthy glowing hue of her pink flesh is just as enticing as the Princesses's curled brown locks. There is even grace in Bull's musculature, which is clunkier than a novice lymerick but in the throes of physical strain can be more poetic than a well hersed verse. The ringmaster's rotund form encases an alluringly jolly soul. Souls too, the phantasms of the departed are represented well by the quatraine silliness of the Shadow King's butler. Beautiful, these creatures, every one of them.

Epros passes his musings over each stansa in turn and chides himself as, per usual, his mind slips between the memories of the remarkable blackness of Ari's presence and the expressiveness of Linda's mouth and cannot seem to become unstuck. Stanley Trinidad Whathavehim is dandily appealing with his annoying commentary and absurdly trimmed collar but again and again, the King along with all the others, pale in the luminance of Epros's fascination with song and sword. From his stance in the teem of pop idol admirerers to the quiet little room in Temel where an eternally unrecognized hero sleeps. Back and forth. A look. A glance. He watches the muses that strike him deep at his core.

Ari is a sonnet, he thinks, when he turns a cheek to his cold, cupped palm.

Linda is an ode when she sings his praises into the microphone.

They, together, make him contemplate the poetry of his own existence.

It is a modest little thing, despite the abrasive nature of his flouncing and flirting. A haiku, possibly.

An admiration

for all beings beautiful

but love meant for two.

He can't choose. He never could. Phantoms aren't meant to be decisive.

They're meant to linger. Like a stare, like a glance.

Like a gaze.