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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. Tourdion, Courant, Galliard, Pavante; Shall we dance them all, my lad?