[For Anthony]

[poetic_apostle]

It was a familiar scene, at least on the island. Anthony sitting on his bed reading, and Julian sprawled next to him, head on Anthony's thigh, reading, drowsing, or like today, writing. Well, sort of writing. It was more of editing, reading back through the last half-dozen or so poems he'd written, scratching out words and jotting down replacements, making notations of how he wanted to rearrange the lines, tugging at a curl as he considered the words.

He paused in his editing and glanced up at Anthony--or at the spine of the book Anthony was reading--to ask, "Is it good?"