In the late-night accounting of all our attempts to make love tangible—these borrowed songs, these digital offerings, these fumbled touches— we spin our inadequate words into something like prayer. We are all just borrowing words to explain the inexplicable— how love persists past reason, past pride, past our own resistance. And in the end, it's simple as breathing: this return to tenderness, this crawling back into open arms that never learned how to stop waiting for our return. (Sonnet)