The Rabbit’s Mask

The Rabbit and the Fox’s Mask

The rabbit wore the mask of the fox,

For she fancied the hound an awful lot.

But the longer he stared, seeing through her guise,

The mask began to crumble before his eyes.

With each soft crack, the pieces fell,

Until fur and ears began to swell—

Big and fluffy, trembling true,

She stood there bare, in full plain view.

She looked at him with love so wide,

No tricks, no masks, no need to hide.

But his paws, they felt too rough, too wide,

His teeth too sharp, his fear too high.

He worried he’d break her tender heart,

And that, he knew, would tear him apart.

So slowly, quietly, he stepped away,

Retreating like prey at the end of the day.

He left her chasing shadows and doubt,

While he wrestled the fear he couldn’t shout.

But her paws grew tired, scraped and sore—

She couldn't chase him anymore.

So she stopped. Let go. Faced the moon.

Knowing she'd given up far too soon.

And he’d always wonder, “Could I have stayed?”

While she’d question the mask she once portrayed.

What if they'd spoken, truly shared?

Laid their hearts bare, shown they cared?

Now they both look up at the same night sky,

Asking the stars the eternal why—

Wishing, not for answers, but for another try,

Still aching to gaze into each other's eyes.