They will be cold, she thinks.
Cold, just like her.
The night itself holds no promises anymore.
They have seen a lot, so many cities, so many streets, different,
yet all the same to them. They have watched summer fade into
a greying, inevitable autumn, and cold sinking to the ground
like a heavy blanket, while their skin remained warm, glowing.
In the beginning, they have talked and laughed
and endeared each other, all with their eyes, never needing
a word. But their gazes have strayed now. They don’t hold
the fire anymore, not like they used to.
Autumn has moved into their hearts, and they
are unable to stop it.
Cold wind blows around them, heavy with rain
and a few wet leaves.
They are still beautiful, even in the unwelcoming,
A woman walks past them, not noticing their
drama, their plight. Her feet rustle the leaves, move them on.
Rain starts to fall, more of a sleet, really.
Cold and bleak.
The drops ripple the surface of the puddle,
and for a moment, they’re contorted, all of them: The
woman, hurrying past to find shelter and warmth, and the couple
on the huge poster, their skin glowing and their faces turned
happily towards each other, but their eyes dead. All of them.
And herself, the street-lamp.
They are cold, she now sees. Cold and
forgotten by a twist of fate, or maybe something far less spectacular.
Maybe simply forgotten.
The woman is out of sight now, only her heels
are creating faint, clacking noises on the wet tarmac.
The couple is still there.
And in the ripples the rain creates in the puddle,
their reflections seem to talk.