No more strains of decision, no more the dance, 

The sparring is over. You sprawl on my arms and legs, 

exhausted from our wrestling, content with your victorious loss - 

and I spit a strand of your hair from my mouth, 

and grin at nothing, or perhaps at something. 

And that is all. No more time to debate 

the why's and wherefore's and but-what-if's 

now that the time has gone: no time, but truce. 

We lay in peace, a lion and a unicorn, 

spirit and strength, at rest, like slain heroes 

or star-crossed lovers.