Barnabas lets his eyes slip open as Cid talks, half-lidded and almost dreamy in how they regard him. As if he's somewhere between consciousnesses and unconscious, a perfect place to be. Then Cid rises, and Barnabas feels the numbing cold of separation snap him back into full awareness, though he does not defy his suggestion. Only waits for Cid to find something for them to complete, that he might do so without the burden of indulgence.

...Though what he finds leave Barnabas silent still, his grey eyes staring at Cid as if scanning for an answer to a question he can't even find the words to ask.

"A poem." He finally says, as if regarding the concept with a fascination unfit for something so pedestrian.

"I doubt you know of any, nor less have any on hand."