The Weight of Snow on Your Sleeves

He found me again, same corner, different snowfall. Said he liked how the city lights caught in my hair.
I didn’t look at him then, just kept watchin' those flakes melt on warm asphalt. Been avoidin' eye contact with anyone who looks too long these days. Too many questions lingerin' in their gaze – like ghosts of what used to be.
He didn’t ask 'why the sad eyes', or ‘what went wrong’, just stood there, quiet as a shadow.
Then he offered me a coffee, black and strong like his silences, and somethin' inside cracked open. Not in a bad way. More like…a thaw.
Now we stand here, two lost souls warmed by caffeine and the shared ache of bein’ alive. He tells me about his days, small nothings mostly – a broken printer at work, a fight with his brother. I just listen. Sometimes, that's all anyone needs—someone to hold space for their storms.
I trace circles on my mug, feelin' the ghost of his fingers brush mine when he handed me the sugar. The city keeps movin', but in this little pocket of time and space, there’s a strange sort of peace. A quiet promise that maybe, just maybe, we can find a way to carry each other’s weight for a while.

Editor: Street-side Poet