I turn and walk
From playhouse to coffeehouse,
My steps growing lighter
As one gap widens and another shortens.
Herein lies a lad
Who proudly wields a rapier wit
But does not view me as his foil.
Our weekly sparring sessions are characterized
By a faint shimmering of synaptic electricity,
My unfettered thoughts and cutting arguments hungry for the stimulation he provides.
This feeling intensifies
When our quips become whispers
Offered in exchange for hastily muffled laughter.
Shall we dance them all, my lad?