It's so incredibly lovely, the words, the knowledge that somewhere in the universe, there was a man able to think them into being and then commit them to paper so that others might enjoy the beauty of his talent. And then, to have them so deeply understood and felt that someone else would feel them the appropriate words to convey the depth of their emotion. Further still, to have that person feel them for him. Obi-Wan's eyes close as he listens to Klaus recite the poem, his fingers stroking against Klaus's shoulder, his collarbone, his hips giving a slow, gentle roll every so often, as if reminding them both where he is.

"It's beautiful," he says, leaning into the kiss, lingering there. His hand slides down slightly, to press his palm against Klaus's chest, an echo of the words that have just been read to him.

"It's truly an astonishing feat, the way people are able to put such feeling into words or music or art," he murmurs. "There is so much beauty in the galaxy and it somehow feels better knowing there are people who can understand it so completely that they're able to communicate it to the rest of us."