You were

wanton witchcraft, you,

incongruous –

our lips never met,

what was that about?

You are

a pot-valor merchant

smiling with the obelus,

eyes on her

just like us then.

I am

Strider at the Prancing Pony,

ticking eyes nearby,

shrouded in wait as you

lay your fiction thick.

I’ll say it again.

Bravo.