Sunday Square

It was autumn, the sun
tiptoeing
behind
the
horizon
when you kissed me in Sunday Square.

The spectral glow of twilight
collided against my legs.
You pulled me into your arms and your
pea coat smelled the way your lips taste;
tobacco and peppermint.
Your breath was warm as it escaped your mouth,
glancing my cheek.

A child looked on from a cafe table with unacquainted eyes that did not yet know of such pink and perpetual longing. The man that hawks fresh fruit was packing up his booth, and the cerise stain of the raspberries that your bought from him still lingered on our shivering lips.

Lovers stepped lightly
into amber-lit bars.
Lovers just like us,
holding on so tenaciously to each other,
afraid that these moments might
rush away
with every
peal
of the
cathedral
bells.