In Passing

But, an unknown language is stitched in their glances, found only in the moments where little intimacies are shared between strangers. The sound of a shoe buckle when it clicks against leather binding as one walks. The jingle of golden rings as fingers overlap. The swoosh of wool as it kisses plaid pants. A silver locket clanging against rib cages. Their captured solitude acts nothing like an empty heart; rather it’s full, swelling with the weight of what’s unspoken. It is the kind of quiet that hums in cathedral halls long after the last footsteps have faded, a hush that does not beg to be broken but instead invites contemplation.

The colours surrounding them whisper in hushed tones, as quiet and noticeable as the frost melting into the earth. Blues so deep it feels as though you’ve sunk into an ocean that surrounds a land you’ve never visited but in a dream. Purples and pinks so soft they bleed nostalgia, like the last light of dusk slipping through lace curtains. Greens and yellows serve as a beacon of hope for what lies beyond snow-ridden fields. They are the colours of waiting, of something stirring just beneath the surface.

Time stretches, yawns, and bends around them as the season sits on a precipice of change. Coats and hats are invited to melt off their bodies. The colors of their clothes are beckoned to greet the world with open arms. But here, they remain just for a moment suspended, a closeness only captured by a stranger yet a history never written.