A sharpness in their eyes was cast over by shadow in the dusk.
The open sky was a denser kind of violet, and the avenue lived with the hustle of dead things. The clouds were without form, and they grew more wispy with every second melting into the minute, and the minute into the hour; they writhed in the sky.
The sidewalk grew to be a relentless stretch of dreaming. Once or twice, their lips met, and, in their eyes, they became the cold space between two warm bodies. Then, the snowflakes came and the world was tranquil. They stepped a thousand times and went no further than their supposed love allowed, and in the desperate abyss of that dream, reality was distant and tasted sour.
Together, boy and girl, in the dead, shadowy dusk; they were looking for something. Their fingers overlapped on one another and, still, they became closer in the night, now. Dusk ended, but the air remained brisk. The snow fell, and the boy was flooded by a joy he hadn't known for seasons. Finally his eyes and the sky met, and the reunion was blessed by some wretched past oath he'd forgotten. These were the hours of joy.
Beneath the envelope of a living promise at ten p.m., the girl felt autumn nestled in her bones, and the world became a home. She lived in the purple, fall night with her love grasping her fingers and the snow flakes making their hair white and the abandoning of doubt wrapped up and warm in some jovial reality she couldn't know again.
They came upon a small crying man, together. At the edge of the sidewalk, underneath the trees, huddled and watching his tears soak the ground; the smoke escaping his mouth clouded the crown of thorns he wore, seemingly unbeknownst to him. He was pathetic like a small twig in November. The small crying man asked them for love and the boy and the girl opened their palms and made the man warm again, and his tears evaporrated into the autumn sky, where it was night but it was a dense violet.