First Frost

there were these two kids on a winter bench.

one reading Brontë, a face still damp from a summer that wouldn’t quit, braces glinting under the grey sky. next to him, the other one, cheeks whipped red by the frost, jaw set hard. a boy already half-armoured.

they kept stealing looks, trying to stuff the smiles back inside their mouths. two kids on wood. pretending the air between them wasn’t burning. a thin blade between them.

cuts quick, bleeds slow.

the cold coming right up through the slats.

first frost on the bench,
two faces turning red,
the air between them freezing.