Winter Words
By Billy Craven
And it was only 5 o’clock but the dusk had crept up on us, and as the sky darkened, the streetlights came on, golden. It was getting cold and the younger kids had drifted homeward and I worried you’d want to go inside, but you stayed.
And as it darkened and the chill settled in, I could suddenly see your breath. And I watched you under the lamplight as your words came visibly to life, drifting, spiralling beneath the soft glow. And you spoke, and I listened, and I watched the words shimmer in the gloaming, smitten. And lovesick as I was, I was grinning.
And when I look back now I don’t remember anything of what you said, but still I can see those words beneath the soft streetlight, like golden ghosts, strange Rorschach shapes to match my mood, all butterflies. And I see your lips pushing phrases into the world, promises and possibility, dispersed freely on a winter breeze. And I was young and you were perfect and I was praying for plosives on a cold December evening. Like watching a magic trick. Like falling in love.
Billy Craven is a teacher working in Dublin, Ireland. He has previously had short stories and poetry published in a variety of literary magazines including Paper Lanterns, The Madrigal, The Caterpillar and Shooter Literary Magazine.
Mesmerizing. A beautiful story!