I won't know what to say when suddenly her eyes look into mine. I'll curse the empty, unused spaces of time I recklessly and carelessly wasted throughout the previous minutes before when I wasn't desperately thinking of something clever to say.
All for naught, when comes the moment for which every man lives, most men stumble or fail, and in which this privileged, fortunate man will triumph, when her captivity of me begins as suddenly my eyes will look into hers. Intervals between seconds will be as immeasurable as the space between where she and I stand, our shared gaze more personal, more sensitive than if we were actually holding hands, invalidating the need to mention the Rogers-Astaire extravaganza my ridiculous imagination has already choreographed.
So here it is, the moment in which I, the peasant, could address her, the lady, ere the moment pass as she could find another worthier man to enchant... I will think of something appropriate to say, that would honor her stature and grace, that would respect, that would compliment, that would demonstrate the love my own dark eyes only conceal. I pray she wouldn't look away too quickly, before I finally find the words.
Well, it continues to be my prayer.
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