Knees on a Rusted Bench

When the tires went flat and the sparkle disappeared, you were there, hands bare— no gifts, no vows, just the heaviness of truth: a breath, a look, the gentle heat of mutual loss. The crowd flowed like a river, their gaze on grander ships. But you remained, knees brushing against mine on a weathered bench, giggling at the clouds as if the rain was of no concern.