Pacify that cliche, before I ask what "This" means to you and we discover, out loud, our mismatching wavelengths, resign to hushup the whole affair.
Rather, focus on my hands, how I’ll tremble with every stop in waltz, and how your eyes stutter after an evening at the shore, searching for the lucky green ray. Maybe too much matches to quit courtship, we’ll reckon. So, take my sore hand and I'll lead you, blind and prideful, back to the bench where we fell, this moment between willows. It was within “this" we tore bread, our fragile sacrament, blessing the nearby birdsongs – Swan, heron, and turkey – with longevity. Like them, let me keep you fed and giggling.
by Zachary Issenberg