"Love is when two people choose to sit in the middle of a bench when there is prenty of room on the ends." -Anonymous

In the park, there is a bench.
Old, rusted, seconds away from falling apart.
This is the bench where the little boy feel and broke his arm.
The bench where the two best friends met.
The bench where the husband left his wife.
The bench where the old married couple sits every day for an hour.
Here we are, sitting on this bench.
Slowly, foot by foot,
inch by inch,
getting closer in distance,
and closer in heart.
As you lace your fingers through mine,
I think back to the old married couple, who sit here every day for an hour
and hope we are like them.
For there is more to this bench
than rusted metal, graffiti and cracked wood.
There are stories,
some already told,
some still waiting to be discovered.
We are one of them.