Just Kids

The evening is the kind when the light between the houses seems shy to fall on the asphalt, and the air smells of something from childhood and a little bit of pain. Between tired breaths and the silence of old stairwells, a memory wanders: thin as a thread, and stubbornly alive. It feels like a familiar shadow is about to flash by, wave its hand, and then disappear again into the golden air. Love here doesn't break - it just passes, like a spring wind when the windows are still closed and the curtains are barely trembling. It was, it became, it's gone - and for some reason, that makes me feel warmer rather than more afraid. Because every "goodbye" hides a tiny "thank you."