"You look like love," she said one night, cold with the whispers of winds on old cobblestone and hushed footsteps of snow-covered boots.
He stopped in his tracks, the cherry of his cigarette pulsing like the colors of a spinning satellite lightyears away from their newly-found lives.
"What does love look like?" he asked, syllables hanging close to his face, blue eyes darting from her lips to her hands and back again.
But he knew. He knew from the first time he shook her hand and saw the sweat glisten off her brow, and listened to her listless stories of how summer never truly loved her, that one day he truly would.
She smiled, lips cracking from the dry air,
"It looks like an overflowing sink, fresh with bubbles from soapy dishwater left unattended to waltz in the kitchen.
It looks like ice cracking to the sweet smoke of scotch and the divot on the couch that sinks our thighs and the thought of any afternoon plans deep in crevasses we're both too sleepy to crawl out of.
It looks like all the things the world took from me and promised it would never give back, but instead packaged in a candle bright enough to illuminate all the dark places and remind me that even though others have treated me like a flicker, I'm truly a flame."