The Warmth Behind the Ribbons

I stand on the empty street and let the night light do its slow work. The asphalt is cool under my shoes; the air is warm against my skin. My twin tails sway when I breathe, and the pink ribbons catch the glow of distant windows like small promises kept.
I am not waiting for anything grand. Only for him. He always arrives late, walking through the bokeh of city lights with his hands in his pockets, and when he sees me he does not speak. He only looks, the way one looks at a quiet room that has finally stopped being lonely.
My chest rises and falls in time with my own pulse. I press my fingers to the black lace at my wrist and feel it hum. That is all love ever was, I think now: a heartbeat that chooses to stay. Not a storm. Not a fire. Just warmth, held close, in the color of pink and the silence between us.
When he finally steps into my frame, I do not run to him. I let him cross the street at his own pace, because what is pure does not need to be hurried. He stops an arm's length away and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. His thumb rests on my jaw for one second. Two. Then he smiles, soft as linen after rain, and we walk home together into the long, gentle dark.

Editor: Pure Linen