Hindsight is a curious and sly mistress. Reflections of what might have been been play cruel tricks on the mind. It is for this reason that the poet rarely thinks back on this tempestuous night. Well, not as often as one might think. For even though the moon's light had playfully danced on the gentle waves that were rocking beneath the couple on the restaurant's dock, and even though the they had experienced one of those rare, blissfully private moments in a public space, the silence after the poem had been deafening. Waiting for those words. Waiting, exposed, under the probe of the light of the moon with the violent jolt of the waves that made the poet feel as though everything he had eaten at dinner would certainly be on the table sooner than the check. No, these moments, these seconds, whether it was 5 seconds or 5,000 seconds, they were the longest of his life and ones that he certainly did not like to recall. For it is in those seconds that every doubt, fear, question, and irrational insecurity bubbled to the surface of the cauldron of crazy within:

What is she thinking? This is what we wanted, WASN'T IT?!!!
She's looking like she's been punched. Did I punch her?
God, I feel like punching her, what's taking so friggin LONG!
It's the poem. GODDAM that STUPID poem!!!!
Who am I? I'm nothing. I'm an art teacher.
I'm a guy in a country in the middle of BUMBLEFUCK!
Who the hell am I? How would we even live?!
Should I ask again? What's she thinking?!

What was she thinking?

It began with a haiku. Upon reflection, some of the most marvelous things in the world need only be said with only a handful of words. They have... gravitas, these words. It is almost never a wonder then that shyest man in the room at a cocktail party is the most sought after. And that elusive, mystery of a man is actually our poet. Not that he was a poet before. TRULY, let it be known that poetry was never a part of this man's consciousness, nor was it an unexpressed part of his soul. No, this poet had written this haiku because he needed a story. Yes, he needed a story so wonderful, so luminous that the only way he could reach the heights that he could normally barely graze with his fingertips was by the stars aligning, the music swelling in the background and the perfect haiku that would be told and retold for years, perhaps decades, to come. Yes, this quiet, novice poet had come to this restaurant on this lake on this warm summer night to tell the girl he loved the most in the world this small haiku. With this haiku he hoped she would see everything she loved about him; that the words, however few, that flew from his lips would speak for all that he could not express and more on that table on the lake, held up in the moonlight as if by magic. he had counted the syllables so carefully. would she say yes?

Maggie, dear Maggie,
Will you marry me today?
I love you. So much.