Love spills from cardboard edges,
wrapped in wool too thin for winter,
bare hands reaching for warmth
that doesn't always come.
A bus stop bench holds the weight
of two souls, lined with yesterday's news—
fingers intertwined like stories untold,
folding into one another,
as if a headline could promise
forever's shelter.
They kiss beneath a bridge,
the sky cracked open above them,
and the river below
never pauses its journey—
they find themselves a quiet piece
of its vastness, floating
through the echoes of a city
that forgot how to see.
Their eyes make rooms in each other,
each glance a shelter more permanent
than stone and mortar could ever offer,
and there, within that fragile gaze,
love finds a home—a shiver,
a fleeting warmth shared like half a sandwich,
tenderness stretched thin,
yet impossibly filling.
The fire they kindle is small,
and sometimes just embers—
but still, enough to light the night,
enough to soften the hard edge
of a world that crumbles when it looks away.
In this moment, they own everything—
the rusted railings, the stars above
as indifferent and steadfast as hope,
the wordless promises whispered
under a cascade of sighs—
and as dawn stains the skyline
with pale, trembling fingers,
their love, homeless but never lost,
breathes into the light,
claiming a corner of morning—
no less real, no less theirs,
than any mansion, any castle,
any dream stitched together
from bricks and empty names.
