The Winter

Coats cling tightly to huddle figures in the wind. Night splits temporarily by the buzzing street lights’ yellow glow.

The bus waits.

Her hands rise to fend off his pleas, heart broken by a thousand deep and everlasting cuts.

He reaches for one last chance only to be brushed aside, her voice beating away his advances; she tilts her head downwards so as not to see him cry.

He serenades her with the memories of their youthful love; a tree that promised warm and tender fruit.

How badly he’d failed to tend her blossoms.

His knees meet the icy concrete; she steps away, long hair dancing like liquid darkness, to leave only gravity and his constant remonstrations weighing on his sanity and turning her name into screams.

But she would get on that bus, the longing would begin and she would look down on his wet and confused face from behind the frosty glass on a journey to the end of the line.

And he will know she is gone for the very last time.