Desideratum

There were these two kids on a winter bench, one soft as fresh bread, pale English rose with braces glinting while he read some Brontë sister, his face still damp from summer that wouldn’t quit, eyes shining quiet, almost holy.

Next to him sat the other one, a briar-rose, thorns showing early, cheeks red from cold and something fiercer. Hard little bastard already, shoulders set like he’d fight the world before lunch.

They kept stealing looks, trying to stuff the smiles back inside their mouths. Nervous, but real. Love at that age is a thin blade (cuts quick, bleeds slow).

Two boys on a bench, one gentle, one already half-ruined, both pretending the air between them wasn’t burning.

Christ, it was beautiful.
And doomed from the first glance.

boys with rosy cheeks,
trying to hide nervous smiles,
young love delicate.