My husband and I read alone and together at night,
separated by feet and worlds, and by the fire light.
We do not speak but tell a quiet tale in glances,
with cups sipped in our respective bookish trances.
My captain’s ship has sunk, a whale torn asunder,
while husband reads of a great economic blunder.
And I can pause and consider our literary dance,
or how we fell in love, oh just by so much chance.
Maybe one day I can write of that love, chapter and line,
with tales of his patience, laugh, and similar kind.
But for now I’ll keep reading my heavy epic tale,
wondering if the captain, without love, must chase the whale.