A Minute.

 He observed the two twisted lovers sitting entranced, each boring holes through the blackened pupils, searching for the twinge of dilation, that lapse of stronghold telescoping out from the front that either projects by way of their fanciful garb and made-up masquerades of speak and step. Their plates lie in front of them, scathed over by the fork rake, a distraction from the tension that douses the either eager side of conversation in embarrassing unease. Neither party wants to seem weak, overzealous, available. There must remain the mysticism of trickery and unknowing, the spark of spontaneity. The game of love, its intricate web of silken ties, in all a test of will and dedication to leaps of faith, to step from the precipice of comfort and into a whirlwind that will inevitably end in downfall, the rocky bottom, and a sharp climb up bruising and cutting each spare swatch of skin on the way back. That is, unless, you find the one. A souls ethereal tuning entwined with another’s.