Wild eyes. Brown hair.
The sun was an orange ball. Beyond the horizon, it stayed away from humans. Its brilliance could burn.
She looks over at him.
Tousled hair. Callouses. Scars. He knows. He’s grown early at nineteen. More grown up than anyone at nineteen could ever be.
More mysterious than the secret of stars. A flower, borne of the wind, she smells like fragrance, she feels like rain.
His skin is a canvas. Stories whisper from each beating he got from his father.
She has her mother’s face. Full lips that trembled whenever she cried.
He wanted to be an artist. He could have been a vagabond, traveling to places, marking his life with memories that felt as alive as him.
She wanted to be a dancer. But life got busy and her legs ache whenever she does one of her practice routines now.
“How have you been?”
“Good.” (She lies.) “And you?”
“Me too.” (He lies.)
The waiter serves wine and chicken wings. They eat silently under the quiet suburban lights. Their silence stares at nothing.
Past lovers. Nothing much to say after all.
He drops her to her hotel.
She reaches out to thank him, but draws her hand back.
His brilliance could burn.
Her eyes could hypnotise.
If only they had stayed longer, there might have been an eclipse.