His face, buried in her neck, half concealed, while hers, tilted upward, shimmered like a big, round pearl.
Such a landscape it made, one Monet and Cezanne would have gladly dipped their brushes for…love in moonlight, beautifully bathed in blues and greens.
New York, so still, seems asleep as I try not to stare…slipping by, barely noticed, as they hold hands, legs entwined like roots of a sturdy tree.
I make my way home, the image locked, their raw, pure affection igniting a yearning in me, that alas, is not yet quelled.
Nice to know the love, you assume is gone, just lies dreamily dormant.