She has pretty eyes which cower delicately beneath half moon lids. Hand in hand, we scuff footsteps along a cracked cement path. Green grass grows garbled and gawkish along the linings of each white fence, splintered and sighing in a light designed solely for Saturday afternoons.
“I think we should go for a walk after church on Sunday.”
Does it matter in a moment? From aspect to aspect, any given situation will always be the same in a routine lifestyle. Tuesday for Wednesday, Friday for Monday – on Sunday church is still church, and God is still God.
A golden framework of the most intricate curls sweep out and cup her round face. If I shut my eyes and wish, I can see her any place that I am.
“I think that we should name our first child William, after my grandfather.”
A syllable pronounced absent from those strung around it to construe a word – does it still have a meaning? Do letters ever get tired of themselves? Does Z hold sullen desires and ambitious longings to usurp A? Or does it manage to assume a progressive intellect, a context which places its pre-destined position only a slight angle askew to the position it covets?
The dress looks nice on her. Pleasant. And pleasant enough to make my heart smile is the thought of us together, matching with our pretty eyes and tender hearts strung up upon the wild seas of love. A plateau might find my neck arched back in ecstasy. Every love is pretentious and vain; narcissistic – and it is a purest form of love which finds itself reveling in how others might admire its form.
“Is the world a beautiful place?”
I look up and see the tremor in her eyes, that slight slip of confidence and her willingness to be wrong. It’s a fragile thing which brazenly throws itself upon the validation of another’s heart. I stroke her hand and smile.
“It’s okay.”



Hamilton, Australia

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