Oh, what shall I speak of his love?
He lies there, spending days and nights,
amidst the wilderness of the woods,
basking in its deafening silence.
He waits. Patient. Composed.
He waits for the night.
He waits for it unlike a tiger
waiting to pounce upon a deer.
He waits not, for his prey.
He waits not, to quench his hunger.
He waits, gently in the wilderness.
He waits, virtuously so, in a vicious jungle.
He waits for her to waltz into the night.
He isn't the kind to leave in disdain,
when she decays night after night.
He'd stare at her crescent smile,
and wonder if he's the reason behind it.
And when she's a half,
he'd wonder if he's the missing half.
And when she's full,
he'd howl in glee, all mighty!
And she would waltz in every night,
naive to the twinkling stars around.
Only she knew she had craters
that only the Wolverine could fill.