Meeting her eyes briefly, he said hello. Hands shoved into pockets, feet shuffling, how they wished to meet hers.

She looked up at the moon, pleading release from this gravitational pull.

She took a step back. Why was she taking a step back?

The bus was coming.

In her mind it was already here, she was sitting, facing the front, watching him go. She felt the weight of the kiss on her lips as her heart sank, and with the tide retreated.

He watched with the moon her meanderings, reading them carefully in the purse of her lips, and the condensation of her sigh.

He stepped closer.

Her eyes opened to the sound of feet. Was he closer?

The streetlight sent down stark shadows opening wide the crevices of his face, the fingers of secrets rested languidly on his lips.

Each brush of a butterfly’s wing reminded her that time hadn’t stopped, yet the world was frozen around them.

The bus was never coming. The moon their only witness.

Icicles of tension caged them in their minds.

He could see them, in the corners of her eyes, a myriad of emotions written in the wrinkles.

The butterflies began to crash about in a frenzy, their wings shredded by worry and self doubt.

Why was he looking at her in that way? Could he see the blood of the butterflies that rushed beneath her cheeks?

From a distance came the soft tired sound of the bus stretching and sighing, easing its way down the street, closer.

He held his breath. His mind racing, the bus was coming, closer, closer. Should he bridge the gap? He tiptoed to the edge and looked down.

Down.. down.. down..

She watched, and looked with him.

It was a big gap.

Forgotten in the moment the bus had arrived. Its soft light and impatient grumbles released them.

They moved, hugging quickly, so as not to lose balance over the gap.

He watched her go and felt the weight of the kiss on his lips as his heart sank, and with the tide retreated.