First Frost

there were these two kids on a winter bench.

one soft as fresh bread, a pale English rose with braces glinting in the light. he was reading Brontë, his face still damp from a summer that wouldn’t quit, eyes shining quiet, almost holy.

next to him, the other one, a briar-rose, thorns already showing. cheeks whipped red by the cold, jaw set like he’d fight the world before lunch and win.

they kept stealing looks, trying to stuff the smiles back inside their mouths. nervous, but real. two boys on a bench, one gentle, one already half-armoured, both pretending the air between them wasn’t burning. Christ, it was beautiful, and breakable as anything that new.

love at that age is a thin blade, cuts quick, bleeds slow.

first frost on the bench,
and between them, something new
the cold can’t get to.