It
was unusual cold, not too dark
but
lonely and simple all the same.
No
time, if any,
to
be left on a park bench
by
yourself with anyone else.
Wrapped
in holes he had left himself there,
next
to her cold eyes,
covering
her from the night’s snow
his
own tears frigid.
Her
clothes were as expected,
but
she had worn them.
She
had found most of them herself
except
for the blanket he had given her,
a
shawl he’d called it,
a
birthday some year ago.
He
had clutched it in his fingers
his
open eyes so very sad
for
not having been able to cry enough,
enough
to wash away his agony
of
having failed her.
He
had tried, oh, how he had tried,
but
he had failed because she was here,
left
on a park bench.
His
eyes had remembered other times,
laughter
and happiness,
before
that, fear of being alone.
But
she had changed all of that.
Her
dark hair blew in the wind,
brushing
against his face,
she
had touched so delicately
a
month,
a
few nights ago.
It
was streaked with gray
and
now embrittled by the cold.
She
had not been left alone.
They
at least had that.
Rich
as they were they knew better
and
had been happy
for
being so poor
they
had each other to hold
and
it meant so much
to
hold.
Her
skirt was fluttering
where
his coat, thin and frosted
crossed
over too late now
to
keep her warm,
because
he did love her
and
she knew it too, had known it.
But
his small coat hadn’t been enough,
and
he had cried
because
it was all he had,
and
so sadly not enough.
So
he tried again
and
it did work, or so it seemed
and
his cold, icy tears proved it.
Love
had worked for them
bundled
together there
so
close,
you
could see how much he had,
still,
loved
her and she him.
He
hadn’t failed her,
her
smile
forever
would tell you this.
He
had tried so hard.
But
he was too old, too tired
and
hungry,
too
cold,
but
not alone.
Did
anyone else care?
“How
did I get here?”, he asked silently,
a
question larger than the words.
There
they are silent and still now,
together,
loving
one another.
Left
there,
there
on a park bench.
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