In the rooms, which stand in summer evenings cooling,

In the interlude between lamplight and firefly dusk, in which we walked

In between the torch-eye of the fox and the shyness of the doe,

In them I see time congealed like a drop of sweat on your cheek,

In perfect silence, waiting, for something to be said,

In between, perhaps, talk and its coda.

Note: Not a poem, but something written for an assignment, and also as an exercise to mimic live music.